


The Broken Throne

by NotSpontaneous



Category: Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, Original Work
Genre: Europe, F/M, France (Country), Intrigue, Middle Ages, Mystery, Renaissance Era, Swordfighting, Travel, Truth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-04 17:34:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13369713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotSpontaneous/pseuds/NotSpontaneous
Summary: When she is kidnapped, he casts it all aside to run after her. Tristan Hawthorne, the man with no face, will cross an ocean to find her. But, on his journey, he is faced with the ghosts of his past. Will he face them, or run away from them?





	1. Chapter 1

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

_Chapter 1_

_September 5th, 1453_

The sun shone brightly in the late summer sky, its rays penetrating through the thick, leafy forest roof of Raven's Grove. There was a pleasant stillness in the desolate forest, animals grazing kept alert for any possible intruders.

Suddenly, a rabbit perked its long ears at the whoosh of an arrow, gliding through the trunks. The steel tip embedded itself a few centimeters next to the animal. The creature did not have to think twice as it ran for its life through the foliage, moss, and bushes of the forest floor. It gained speed as yet another arrow whooshed past it; closer this time.

The vibrations of hooves awakened more creatures in the woods as two riders rushed to catch the animal. One rider strung his last arrow, letting go of his reins mid-canter. His seating was secure as he held onto the eager stallion with strong thighs. He took a deep breath, the keen eyes looking at the back of the rabbit as he aimed the weapon. The arrow released with his breath, sliding forward in an elegant arch as it caught its prey. The rabbit was dead as soon as the metal head had burrowed into its skin and flesh, tearing through its innards.

The horses took both riders to the dead animal. One man got down and put it in a bag, proud of his achievement.

"Did you see that shot, Magnus?" he exclaimed gleeful, pointing to the bow he held in his hand.

The other man—much younger—scoffed but could not help a grin spread on his lips as he saw the proud look in his older brother's eyes.

"What I saw, Philip, was you recklessly letting go of your horse to catch a mere rabbit," he teased. The dark eyes gleamed mischievously as he watched his brother sigh at him while he got back on the horse.

"Cocky now, are we? I guess you will continue giving me snarky comments until I take down a deer as well today?" Philip defended as he mounted. His blue orbs could not uphold his serious countenance as he arrogantly raised an eyebrow, something that had turned into a trademark gesture for the king.

"A deer or a hog, at least," Magnus continued. "But I fear your dumb horse has scared them all away with his insistent neighing."

As if on key, the black stallion stretched his neck and let out a roaring neigh, pleased when his master patted his side. Philip's eyes wandered from the horse to Magnus for a few moments before he let out a roaring laughter. The midnight black locks fell into his eyes and gave him a roguish air.

"I think Hannibal disagrees with being called dumb, Magnus," he chuckled while urging the stallion forward.

They continued their quipping as they searched the forest for more animals. Somewhere in the distance, hounds had been released to help the other noblemen in the area locate prey as well. But they never made any effort to shoot the larger animals they found. Instead, they would send a servant to inform the king so he would be the one to take the animal down. But no matter how many servants they sent, Philip never came. He preferred finding and killing his own prey.

As the day progressed and the gentle winds stirred the forest roof more, the woodland creatures picked up the scent of the humans who had invaded the green woods. After having taken down a pheasant, Philip decided that it was enough for one day. The young monarch longed to return to Adelton Hall.

They exited the thick foliage of the forest with the train of noblemen, hounds, and servants that had accompanied the two royals. All the way to the gleaming white castle raised high on its cliff, Philip and Magnus kept talking and joking with each other.

Philip Fell looked at Adelton Hall and took in its beauty. The fairy tale castle was outlined against the Durun Mountains—where in a few months snow would paint the tops. Green forests surrounded it except for the front where an emerald green meadow with soft grass and white flowers rolled; with one narrow road that led to the town of Hayes. The yellow and orange rays of the now setting sun bathed the castle in their colors, making it take on a golden sheen.

"I can never get over how beautiful it is here," Magnus breathed as he took in the surreal landscape.

Philip looked at the scene in front of him. This was a wonderful world to live in. Angloa was a free country, she was blossoming like a flower in May. Slowly but surely she grew to be her own, to distance herself from once being a colony of the English.

"This place is like nothing I've ever known before. The mountains, the forest, the hills—everything has a power over me that I cannot explain. Whenever I am here I feel at peace," he said as he turned to his brother, at least 15 years his junior. Philip had, with carefully worded words explained just what Magnus felt.

"To think you were crowned King four years ago, my brother. Time passes quickly when in such a place."

"Time passes quickly when one is happy," Philip mused. His lips parted a silver, his face contorted into a mischievous look that soon dominated his handsome features. Philip stared at the castle in the distance. A dangerous gleam shone in his eye as he turned to his brother.

"I will race you to the gatehouse!" Philip yelled, not giving Magnus time to react as he spurred Hannibal into a wild gallop. Magnus was soon behind, yelling curse words at his brother as the other laughed loudly.

* * *

 

_February 23rd, 1520_

The foul stench of fish and waste would not go away as her tired body laid sprawled on the messy bed. Christine found that she had no energy to move away from it. The dirty sheets surrounded her like a suffocating blanket and she stared emptily at the dark wall of the ship.

Her head was dull by now. She had spent too much time crying, and she found the tears had dried up. She only found a wrecking emptiness inside her as the waves of the Mediterranean rocked the galleon like a mother would rock the cradle of her child.

Braun locked her door these days. He had assured her several times that no harm would come to her as he had rushed her and his men to the docks. But Christine had never believed him, especially not when she had watched him shoot Mrs. Rochester. She had tried in vain to take the men down as they set to rape the younger maids in their townhouse. When she closed her eyes, she could hear their raw cries claw the walls of her mind as several of Braun's men took turns with the maids. Braun himself went over the best way to flee the city.

Christine had not believed Braun's reassuring words as they bribed the merchant to take them to Cadiz. The merchant had sealed his own doom when Braun's men took over the ship, killing most on board. However, the more seasoned sailors were allowed to join the ranks of the disgraced duke.

Christine had finally damned him when one of his men found her the first night, hidden in the small chamber provided for her.

Braun had gotten to her in time before any real damage could be done. Even so, she really wondered if he had not damaged her, just a little. Yet another piece of her wounded soul seemed to fall away, fading away in the darkness of her being.

The man was killed, of course. But what he had done to her could never be changed. Braun had even professed his deepest apologies, but they mattered not to her. He had put a lock on her door and promised such a thing would never happen again.

The first hours after having been touched by that disgusting man Christine had cried, horrified at what had been done to her body. She could feel the filthy hands running over her, tearing the gown and pinning her down on the floor. She could feel the splinters of the floor ride into her back as he mounted her, fumbling with his dirty hoses. It hurt. Not just in her body, but in her soul as rough hands forced her limbs still.

Christine had cried harder after, feeling dirty, soiled and broken. He had never managed to rape her, but he had been close enough for it to feel real.

She had never known much about making love, only that it was a necessary process to conceive children. But now that she saw a glimpse of what it might entail, she abhorred it.

After a few days of constant crying, she found herself to be exhausted. There were no more tears; only that emptiness within her. She still wore the torn dress and her back was still scraped and ridden with thick and painful splinters.

That was how Braun had found her. She cared little for modesty as he walked in, not even bothering to cover up her bare legs or naked back as he closed the door behind him. Braun could not ignore the twinge of guilt that ran through his mind at the sight of her. It was first when he neared her bed that she made any movement to get away from him.

Christine's wide eyes looked at him. Pain and despair filled them, but the frown and hatred soon penetrated. Braun put up his hands as a gesture of well-meaning.

"I will not touch you, nor will I hurt you. I swear it on my life," he said as truthfully as he could. It caused Christine to sneer. She pushed the dirty locks away from her face.

"Your words mean little to me," she growled, her voice still shaking. She ignored the pain in her back. The splinters were causing some slight inflammation and Braun eyed them with concern. "As does your word of honor. I would never trust a traitor," she laced every word with venom, biting back the pain coursing through her back. Braun disregarded her words and caught view of her inflamed back.

"At least let me have someone tend to your wounds before they get worse," he said as he saw she was in visible pain. But she turned from him.

"Like you had that man of yours "tend" to me a few days back?" Christine tried to ignore the memory of him and looked away, hoping Braun couldn't see her moment of weakness. He said nothing, he did see the incident as unfortunate and a small twinge of guilt washed over him a second time. But he, a duke, would not go so low as to actually apologize to her.

"I will send someone over, whether you like it or not," Braun said haughtily, trying to gain dominance over the conversation again.

He turned to walk out of the room, not keen on being in her presence for too long. Braun knew he had made a brash decision in taking Christine Vega with him like that. He had been infuriated at the moment, only wanting to hurt Tristan Hawthorne. But now he saw that it had been a foolish mistake, something someone like Alistair would do.

"Tristan will find me." The words stung him more than they should have. Braun was surprised by the fire they held. He had always seen Christine like a frail little thing, but now he was unnerved by the raging fire shooting out of her lavender eyes.

"I hope he slaughters all of you when he comes." She ignored the hypocrisy in her words. To think that only a week earlier she had stopped her fiancé from killing Alistair and now Christine wished for nothing more than to see blood spilled. She ignored the violence that stirred within her.

Braun could not hide the smirk as he turned to face her. He had to bend down as the door-opening was so low.

"Hawthorne is dead, I killed him myself," he said. Braun could not help himself as satisfaction embedded itself deep within his being. Silence followed those words.

He could not read her face. Her expression froze before it turned cold. Christine felt her mouth go dry at Braun's words.

"That is not possible," she whispered in disbelief. Yet a small part of her questioned herself. "If you killed him it means you managed to overthrow the king…" she trailed off. "You wouldn't be running from Angloa." She tried to find logic in such a situation, never willing to accept Tristan's death.

"He sent for Lucius Chaeld to come with an army to the gates of Wessport. I had to flee, but I managed to slice him open before I did so," Braun lied. She could not find words as the hope of being saved slowly vanished within her.

"I do not know if you ever got to see his face. But if you didn't be glad for it. It was indeed a mess under that mask of his. I understand why he wore it now," Braun continued, the coldness in his voice sent shivers through Christine as she came to terms with her new reality.

_February 22nd – Málaga_

The morning sprung alive in the Spanish port as a great many ships from all over Europe arrived at the harbor. Although it was February, the sky was clear, the temperature pleasant yet chilly and the sun warm. Its rays stretched far and wide, heating the bustling streets by the docks.

As they sailed in on the merchant ship, Lucius and Joseph watched in awe when the Alcázaba came in sight. The palatial fortification appeared so foreign and exotic to them. It stood on a hill, in the center of the city, overlooking the harbor—visible from the port itself. Trees surrounded the grand Moorish building, and it stood out like a rare jewel amongst the other buildings in the city.

Here seagulls cried out as they searched for fish that had been thrown out of the stalls. They would occasionally dive to steal some smaller fish when the vendors weren't looking.

The merchant ship docked and both Lucius and Joseph could not help but stare in awe at the unfamiliar sights and smells. Here trading ships unloaded their cargo to be sold to the highest bidder. Herbs, spices, metals, precious gems, fabrics, hides, and so on were packaged, inspected and placed on carts.

They went down to their quarters where they'd spent the last week as the ship had taken them from Wessport to the Iberian Peninsula. Lucius knocked softly on the door while Joseph waited outside.

"Come in," a weak voice said. Lucius opened the door, closing it behind him as he walked into the modest space.

On a small bed lay Tristan in a thin, white shirt and dark trousers, sweating profusely through his clothes. Even though the Mediterranean temperature was much milder than the cold, unfeeling winds of a snow-ridden Angloa, the air still held a chill to it.

"We have arrived," Lucius said as he went to sit beside the bed.

Tristan turned to face him. The whites of his eyes had a red tinge to them. The black mask did not show how the rest of his face looked, but Lucius could see—from the little skin showing around his eyes and mouth that he was pale. His lips held a purple tone and he was clammy. Tristan's breath was shallower than he would have liked.

"Good," was all the masked man could utter with difficulty. He had not even strength to lift his head from the pillow to stare out the small glass window that offered a view of the Spanish port. Lucius stared at him for a while, his lips in a thin line.

"How is the wound?" he asked, pointing at Tristan's shoulder. It was bandaged tightly. However, even though Braun's knife had been thin and small, it had left a deep wound. Since Tristan had rushed away with his friends after the battle at the palace—never bothering to properly care for the wound—it had become infected during the journey. The second night it had started to look red and irritated. Despite him trying to keep it clean, the tainted air on the ship did little to help. The third day it became inflamed, swelling up, turning into a painful obstacle for Tristan. He couldn't move his arm on the fourth day and on the sixth, puss started seeping from it. Joseph and Lucius grew worried. If it was left untreated, the infection would surely claim their friend.

"It's fine," Tristan lied, his usually strong and masculine voice now a mere whisper. He made no effort to confirm his words. His left hand still lay unmoving by his side and the fever had not gone down.

"It is not fine, Tristan," Lucius said as he voiced his concern. His baritone voice turned grave when he saw the man suffer. "As soon as we dock we must get you to a physician, they will—"

"We have no time, Lucius. Just buy some herbs in one of the merchant's stalls and I will apply it myself," Tristan argued. But he had scarcely any strength to go against Lucius. The other could not stand seeing his friend in such a wretched state.

"I will do no such thing. I will take you to someone myself if I have to," he continued. He would not lose Tristan in some foreign town, not now.

"I do not trust physicians here," Tristan argued. "And we must take the next ship to Rome, lest we lose track of Christine and Braun!" he exclaimed. In a delirious state, Tristan moved his arm a mere centimeter. A heartbreaking cry of pain escaped him as the wound was moved as well, the puss leaking through the bandage. Lucius said nothing at the evident discomfort of the other. He only sent his friend a glance saying "I told you so".

"We will help you off the boat and find a place where you can rest. You cannot go after Christine like this. We need you to have all your strength and wits about you if we are going to outsmart Braun," Lucius's baritone voice spoke. He never received an answer. Tristan's eyes flashed with contained anger, but he had no strength to argue.

It was soon that the ramps to the ship were laid so the people onboard could descend. Joseph and Lucius supported Tristan. They placed a long cape around him with a deep hood to shield his mask and integrity, to deter curious onlookers.

When the three had descended they stood in the middle of the harbor, the men, and women bustling around them as they took care of their affairs. Neither Lucius nor Joseph spoke any Spanish. They had also never been outside of Angloa and found themselves completely lost in that foreign city.

"Perhaps we should try to find an inn?" asked Joseph as they looked around like lost puppies.

"I do not see an inn here," Lucius said as he supported most of Tristan's weight. He nearly crumbled under the size of the wounded man that leaned against him. Tristan was barely lucid.

"We'll ask around." Joseph tried to remain positive, but the situation felt more and more dire by the minute.

"Ask for a  _posada_  or a  _taberna_ ," came a whisper from under the hood. Their concealed friend bit pack the fatigue and pain, fighting through the dizziness that followed.

Joseph built up the courage and went asking around. He did, of course, not understanding the answers he was given. But after a lot of patience and hand gestures the three of them wandered toward the center of the city until they found their destination.

The posada was situated on a busy and narrow street with whitewashed houses. Inside people sat eating food and drinking the local wine while they spoke in high voices. Joseph and Lucius kept widening their eyes at every turn, amazed by every new thing they saw. The innkeeper met them and started speaking a Spanish at an alarming speed that sent their minds spinning. All words were completely intangible as he kept sounding them out. He was shorter than them with black curly hair—not bothering to shave the small beard that was growing on his wide face. The nose was prominent—a Roman aquiline nose. It was proud, passionate and arrogant; like both men perceived the Spaniards to be.

Tristan managed to say some words in Spanish and the innkeeper quickly showed them to a room with two beds and a thin mattress on the hay-covered floor. He required immediate pay and kept glancing at the hooded man as he was lowered down on the bed, resting his heavy head against the pillows. When the innkeeper had left Joseph and Lucius looked just as lost as they had before.

"What now?" whispered Joseph to Lucius, sure that the older friend would have a grasp of the situation.

They stared around the dark room. The wooden beams in the roof were old, and the oak was dark. One corner held a small chair and table with a metal bowl. Outside they heard the busy pedestrians going about their business. Tristan's chest moved with effort as his breaths became all the more shallow.

"We have to find someone who can help him," Joseph insisted. Lucius agreed with a silent nod. But which physician could help with such a wound? Not even a king's doctor would be able to do much. Lucius knew well that those dedicated to healing often did more damage than good.

"There is a family here that I knew long ago," Tristan's faint voice spoke after a moment's silence. The sudden sound broke through the stillness in the chamber. Both men standing lent him their ears as he caught their attention.

"You lived here?" Lucius asked in disbelief.

Tristan ignored him and continued. "The father had some experience in medicine. I trust him."

"Where?"

"On the outskirts of the city," he trailed off. The large form gulped for air under the cape and hood, his head and arm thumping in the same rhythm. The sweat had soaked through his whole shirt and standing close they could feel the heat radiate from him. Lucius and Joseph exchanged worried glances. They had no doubt that the small move from the ship to the inn had endangered his situation. If he did not get help before the day was over they were worried they'd have to search for churchyard instead of a physician.

"I will go. You keep an eye on him," Lucius said as he patted Joseph on the shoulder. The younger man removed the cape and placed it on a shivering Tristan.

Lucius went to the door and glanced back. The directions he had gotten were little to go on as Tristan had lost lucidity once more. He would have to try as hard as he could though.

Lucius started searching for the road that led to the outskirts of the city—to the old quarters. It took him a while and a lot of patience. He received quite a lot of strange looks as he tried his best to ask for directions. Hand gestures got him around good enough. He even said some words in his very limited Latin—the Spaniards seemed to understand him well enough most times.

The blond Angloan arrived at a section of the city where fewer people frequented. The air was different as well, more loaded than before. The space between the houses stood narrower, to keep the rays of the sun away during summer no doubt. As he wandered the streets, he asked people if any of them knew Tristan Hawthorne. After what seemed hours Lucius was giving up hope.

He found a small fountain in a little plaza where he sat down. Somewhere a church bell rang, and the town seemed to have died down as the afternoon progressed. He guessed it was time for supper.

Lucius placed his head in his hands, staring in defeat at the cobblestones. How could they go after Christine when Tristan lay like an invalid on his deathbed? He feared the worst then. Lucius started playing the worst possible scenarios in his head. He had always known himself to be pessimistic and now was no different.

While his occupied mind wandered a boy came running after a kitten that tried to escape him. They boy couldn't have been older than twelve or thirteen and he was as thin as a twig. His skin was darker than those Lucius had seen around town. It had an olive tone to it. The black tresses were a mess and his eyes widened as he saw the strange blond man stare back at him by the fountain. Lucius thought he had nothing to lose and tried to ask the boy.

At first, the youngling kept away as he thought Lucius to be very strange. He had seen few foreigners in his life and, so, having someone so close was unnerving for the young Spaniard. Lucius started losing patience with the whole mission. The sun was already lowering on the sky, the once blue heavens now took an orange tone as the yellow orb started disappearing—taking its warmth with it.

But when he mentioned Tristan's name, the boy suddenly lit up with recognition—he knew Tristan Hawthorne. Lucius could not explain more for he did not speak the language. But the young boy took his hand and guided him through the labyrinth of narrow streets and allies until they stopped in front of a door. As he let himself be guided by the foreign boy, the young man's heart sped up with anticipation, perhaps this was it.

The houses of this street had a faded white tinge to the walls, the red brick that lay underneath had started showing through at some parts. The door was a horseshoe arch made up of different colored bricks of a very faded red and beige. The material was of delicate cedar, once probably strong and proud, now as faded as the rest of the doors in that particular part of town. He could see some window higher up in the structures with intricate details carved into the stone. The patterns that made up the window were destroyed in some parts. Yet, he saw a lantern hanging by it, lit now that the sun was descending.

The boy knocked hard on the wood and waited patiently. A small section of the door opened, a woman peeked through—a red veil covered her face, only allowing a view of dark enigmatic eyes. They boy said something and mentioned Tristan's name. The woman looked from the boy to Lucius and he saw a delicate black eyebrow raise on her tan forehead. But she let him in, ushering him in quickly and looking around the street, making sure no one had seen them.

Lucius walked into what he could only describe as the most ornate and exquisite courtyard he had ever seen. Whoever had lived in this house had once been rich and perhaps even an important person in society. But, as history would have it, the riches of the house and courtyard had faded, merely a whisper of what they used to be.

In the middle of the rectangular courtyard was a rectangular reflecting pool. On the bottom of the pool tiles and mosaic in intricate mathematical patterns could be seen through the clear water. Opposite them was a gallery organized by poly-lobed arches—something Lucius had never seen before. The symmetric arches had carvings in the light stone as well. He could see faded paint line the lower part of the columns, extending to the pillars that supported them. Beyond the gallery, he saw a stairway in stone leading to the second level. By the stairway, a horseshoe arched doorway opened up another room bathed in light. There was much greenery in the courtyard. Blooming flowers lined the columns and pool even thought they were at the end of February. The walls parallel to the pool held windows, and he saw some curious faces look through them and hastily retreat when he met the gazes.

The woman stared long at him. Now—in the light of the evening sun—Lucius could see the uncovered face of the cautious woman. She wore a dress in muted blues and reds, hugging her midsection and covering her arms and shoulders. A thin veil with fine embroidery was draped across her hair. The woman wore the graying hair away from her defined face. She looked Lucius up and down, frowning at his presence but tolerating it, nonetheless. Her severe voice spoke to the boy in a language that did not sound at all like Spanish. Her words were enough to send him away. She motioned for Lucius to follow her as she led him to the door at the end of the courtyard.

The room was high in roof; the interior sported the same style as the courtyard. Reds, yellows, blues, and copper were incorporated into the rich design. A low table sat in the middle and soft cushions in red with detailed silk embroidery had to be the seating, was all that Lucius could think of. He was sat down on one of them, surprised at the commodity they offered. He could sense the faint perfume of spices and oranges waft through the house. In one corner of the room stood a lonely orange tree in a big ceramic pot. The branches held small green fruits that would eventually mature into big, juicy oranges.

Suddenly, he heard steps, and the woman reappeared from the courtyard, followed by another woman. She wore similar clothes but was much younger. Lucius was completely taken by her beauty. Her raven hair peeked through the veil in soft curls—glossy and healthy. She had the same olive tone to her slightly tan skin. It looked soft and inviting to the now self-conscious man. Her eyes were what really intrigued him though. They were like nothing he had ever seen. She never dropped eye contact as she sat down opposite him on a cushion by the table. He stared into the dark depths. At first, he thought they were as black as the older woman's eyes. But, in the light of the many oil lamps that hung from the ceiling—suspended by thin chains—he saw a hint of green in them. Even from a distance, he could feel her sweet scent; spices, orange blossoms and something else he could not quite place. The woman frowned when it was clear that Lucius was staring at the younger woman—who could not have been over twenty.

"We bid you welcome to our house, sir." Her voice sounded more mature than she looked. Her accent was soft and welcoming, flowing like a sweet tune from her plump lips.

"You speak English?" was all Lucius could say after a pregnant pause. The question made her raise an inquisitive eyebrow.

"Of course," she answered matter-of-factly as if it had been evident. She took the initiative when Lucius made no effort to continue the conversation. He was still a stranger to the two women in front of him—lost in thought of what he had come for.

"I am Zoráida, this is my mother, Hala. The young boy you met was my brother, Ashiq," she drawled in her accent. Lucius had never before heard of such names. Even though he was familiar with Spain and the Spaniards, he never knew of them having such names. But slowly the wheels in his mind started turning. They were north of the city, still close to the center but it was clear that the Spaniards did not frequent this area. The people in front of him were not Christians he realized then—or they were newly converted. It should have been evident from the start, but Lucius had been too preoccupied with admiring the surroundings to ever take note.

"Well met, Miss Zoráida, Mrs. Hala," Lucius said awkwardly as he nodded to both women. Hala continued to frown at him.

"My brother said you were speaking of Tristan," she said, pronouncing Tristan's name with a Spanish accent.

"I am. He is here, in Malaga," Lucius explained, getting straight to business. Zoráida's eyes lit up at the mention of Tristan's presence.

"Oh, then he must come for it has been very long since we last saw him," she said, smiling for the first time. Lucius's heart jumped a beat at her smile as it lit up her whole face. It did not seem as strict as it had before. It became softer, more feminine.

"That is why I am here. Tristan is wounded, and he sent me here because he believes you can offer him medical care," he continued. The truth was that Lucius had no idea how any of these women would be able to help Tristan. But then again, it was his masked friend who had been in Spain before; who knew of the country and its ways. So Lucius didn't question it and trusted Tristan instead.

Zoráida's smile faded as a painful memory seemed to surface. Hala noticed how her daughter seemed subdued by what Lucius had said. She asked her what they were talking about. When Zoráida explained Hala seemed to recall the same painful memory.

"Tristan must have been speaking of my father, for he was indeed a great healer," Zoráida began. "But he cannot help him now." Her words were stiff and short as if she did not wish to recall her father.

"Why not?" Lucius asked urgently. "Tristan has an infected wound on his shoulder that needs acute care now or he will not last the night, I am sure of it."

The young woman's enigmatic eyes stared right into Lucius's clear ones, cutting into his very soul. It was almost as if she held a spell over him.

"My father is dead," she said finally, the tension rising at every moment. With those words, the hope of helping Tristan seemed less and less likely. She noticed how the foreigner in front of her despaired at her words. "But worry not, I learned much from my father before he passed. I will come with you and help Tristan."

"You?" He could not help himself as the words escaped his mouth. Even though Hala did not speak English, she understood what he meant from the tone in his voice. Zoráida just eyed him defiantly. The dark greens in her endless eyes seemed to gleam dangerously as she stuck her chin out, challenging him to question her again.

"You will show me to Tristan," she said. The young beauty exchanged some brief words with her mother who clearly seemed opposed to the ordeal. But Zoráida ignored her.

"Very well," Lucius agreed. He hoped the girl knew what she was doing. He had never heard of women being physicians before. A small part of him wondered if Zoráida might use more than herbs and ointments to heal. The prejudice of a woman healer being tied to a witch briefly touched his mind. But Tristan had little time and Lucius had nowhere else to turn.

The women guided him out to the courtyard again. He watched as it was bathed in the dying rays of the sun. It transformed the space. The pool reflected the orange heavens just like the walls with strange inscriptions running along their edges.

Hala grimaced at Lucius the whole time he stood contemplating the alien courtyard. He had never seen such exquisite and symmetrical architecture before. Even though faded—having drifted back with the sands of history, it could not compare—to Lucius, with what he had seen in Angloa. Perhaps it was the style of the architecture, the novelty, that set him off.

"My brother, Ashiq, will accompany us," she said, sneaking up behind him. The sudden nearness of the young woman made Lucius jump slightly. He had not noticed her as she neared him. The boy stood waiting by the cedar door, a serious look was plastered over his face. Zoráida carried a small green sack that rested diagonally across her concealed frame.

"Fair enough," Lucius agreed. It would be safer to have the boy walk the girl home after she was done with Tristan.

Zoráida said her goodbyes to her mother and soon they were off to the inn. The siblings remained silent the whole way there. They would occasionally pass people coming back from the fields or the harbor as the day came to an end. Both the girl and boy would cast their gazes to the ground, avoiding eye contact as much as possible. They had stepped out of their protected home and walked into another world. Although the boy could have passed for just any other boy on the street, Zoráida drew in more attention to her deep eyes, slightly darker skin and style of clothing.

They arrived at the inn while the first darkness of the night wrapped tightly over Malaga. Torches had been lit on the streets and she spoke to him in a hushed voice to sneak her and her brother in via the

He looked around for a back door in the dark, feeling nervous as he feared being discovered at any time. For some reason, he felt like he was sneaking in a lover into his home while avoiding his parents. Lucius snickered at himself—he was a grown man. Such things should not bother him.

He finally found a clear way to get into the inn. The inside was lively as more and more people streamed in to get some wine or beer after a hard day's work. The innkeeper was too busy serving them to notice as the trio came in through the back way and quietly went up the stairs. Lucius blocked the view of the siblings if anyone happened to look up at the stairs at that moment.

Joseph was pacing back and forth in the small space as he kept sending worried glances Tristan's way. The fever had kept going up since Lucius had left and at moments his breath would stop briefly until it came back—uneven and shallow.

A soft knock sounded on the door; someone checked to see if it was unlocked. Joseph pushed his ear against it and was thankful when he heard Lucius on the other side. He unlocked the heavy door and three people rushed in.

Joseph's eyes grew into saucers at the sight of Zoráida and Ashiq. He sent Lucius a questioning glance, an eyebrow rising high on his forehead. But he never questioned the peculiar siblings directly.

The young girl's eyes searched the poorly lit room until she found Tristan's large form sprawled on the bed, sleeping. She cast away the shawl and rushed to his side, kneeling by his left shoulder and taking his gloved hand carefully in hers. A pained expression lit in her face as she saw the state he was in.

"Tristan?" she called with a soft voice, another hand sneaked up to his face and caressed it carefully. Tristan stirred at the touch and opened his eyes. It took him a while to gain lucidity. A face he could not place hovered above him, outlined by the dim light in the crowded room.

"Zoráida…" he trailed off, the voice merely an echo of what it used to be. He smiled as he recognized her. His right hand came to take her own, and he squeezed it gently. It was clear to Lucius and Joseph that the two had known each other for a long while.

"I see you haven't changed," she said as she scolded, her eyes gliding over his weary form. It coaxed a laugh from the man that he immediately regretted as it caused severe pain in his shoulder.

"You English has gotten better," he murmured after he recovered. She began digging in the green sack, letting go of his hands.

"I had a good teacher," Zoráida said as she kept digging. She placed several clean bandages and various packets of herbs, bottles of foreign liquids and metal instrument on the nightstand next to him. The young woman took some small scissors and cut open the white, soaked shirt to better access the wound.

"Where is Musa, your father?" he asked as he looked around the room, not finding what he sought. A shadow stretched over Zoráida's face as she gently plied the bandage away from the wound, grimacing at the puss seeping out. Joseph and Lucius sat down by the other bed in the room, silently watching them in the dim light. Ashiq looked away at the mention of his father's name.

"He died," she said, her full lips turning thin. Zoráida cleaned the wound, trying to keep herself occupied. The news sent Tristan's mind spinning.

"How could that be? What happened when Sofia and I left?" he asked, raising his head as the urgency in his voice grew. He was too weak, and it plopped right back down. He clenched his right fist as she touched the wound. Zoráida never answered his question, instead, she motioned for Lucius and Joseph to come to their side.

"Hold him down." Zoráida placed them each on one side of the masked man. Lucius put a hand against Tristan's right shoulder and arm while Joseph stood by Tristan's left side, holding him down by his left arm and chest—mindful of never touching the open cut.

"I want you to bite down on this, lest you injure yourself more," Zoráida said as she gave him a small piece of wood to bite down on. Tristan did as she bade, knowing well what followed. Zoráida needed to clean the cut as she had seen her father do so many times before; by pouring alcohol over it. He knew the pain would be unbearable due to the severe infection, and he only hoped it wouldn't last. She sent him an apologetic look as she uncorked the flask with the clear liquid.

"Make sure he doesn't move, or it will aggravate the wound," Zoráida instructed, receiving stiff nods from both men as they looked down at their friend. Even in such a state, Tristan kept a stoic air of indifference, trying not to be bothered by such a situation. Zoráida let the alcohol flow freely. Time moved slower as the liquid escaped the bottle, gracefully making its way to the irritated shoulder. When the first drop made contact with the infected skin, Tristan felt as if his flesh was burning off. Against his will, he tensed while the alcohol bore deep into the wound, cleaning and cleansing his shoulder. Joseph and Lucius had to put all their weight on the limbs. Even though he was weak, Tristan put up quite the resistance. He bit down as hard as he could on the wood, trying to fight the pain. But the more she poured into the wound, the more he lost grip over himself.

When she had finished cleaning the wound—removing the puss with a clean cloth soaked in more alcohol—she proceeded to place herbs that would lessen the infection. She could not yet sew it shut. They would have to wait until the next day and see how it healed. She bandaged it in white linen strips washed in vinegar. Now they had to wait. Tristan let out a weak breath as the worst part was over. She removed the piece of wood.

"Drink this," Zoráida said as she uncorked another flask with a dark amber liquid in it. He grimaced at it, for he had tasted the very same medicine years earlier from Musa; Zoráida's father. He knew how vile it tasted. "Tristan, you will drink it or I will force you to drink it," she ordered angrily as she recognized the look in his eyes. Joseph and Lucius had to hold in some chuckles despite themselves. She looked like a mother scolding her child. He opened the mouth and closed his eyes, grimacing through the mask as the medicine slid down his throat.

"Will he be alright?" asked Joseph after she went to sit next to the bed. Even though the wound still stung, Tristan could feel the invasive herbs taking effect. He still had a fever, but he knew the medicine would take care of it.

"We will have to wait until the morning. If the infection goes down, I will sew the wound shut," Zoráida explained. "After that, it is up to Tristan." She glanced over, giving him a knowing glance.

"How did Musa pass away?" came the question again. It took them all off guard as they had expected the masked man to have slumbered into a deep sleep. Instead, he looked at them with his deep blue eyes, catching the sorrowful gaze of Zoráida. She sighed and turned to face him. Ashiq looked down the window, observing the lively street outside of the inn. He listened to the brawls and tune of a spontaneous guitar as laughter escaped the confinements of the  _sala_  where the customers drank and ate away. The merriment did not seem to fit the gloomy air that now expanded throughout their little room.

"The Inquisition took him," Zoráida said silently after a while.

"They took Hakim too," Ashiq added silently in Spanish by the window—his English only limited to some form of understanding.

Tristan grew cold at those words. Both Musa, father of Zoráida, and Hakim, her brother, had been good friends when he had lived briefly in southern Spain for some years. Sofia and he had even lived with the family for a few weeks upon their arrival in Malaga.

"But you converted, nothing to me indicated that you would have—"

"It doesn't matter if we did or not, to the inquisition we were still  _mudéjares_ ; still moors. We represent the past and they will use any excuse to cast us all out. It doesn't matter if we convert, they only call us  _moriscos_ then. We will never be one of them, even if our family has lived on these lands for centuries," Zoráida said heatedly.

"What are mudéjares and moriscos?" asked Joseph, voicing the curiosity that Lucius felt as well.

"All they received was a harsh glance from both Tristan and Zoráida, indicating that it was a story for another time. Zoráida looked back at Tristan, taking one gloved hand in hers, squeezing it gently. Despite their situation, she was glad to see him again.

"You will have to rest in this bed for at least a few days more and then rest your left shoulder and arm for another few weeks. When you start using it again, you must be wary. The wound was deep and if you put too much weight on it, it could easily reopen and get infected again," she explained.

"Tomorrow you will sew it shut and then we take the next ship to Rome," Tristan said, determined to not waste any more time than necessary.

Zoráida frowned at his words while she packed away her equipment.

"Why do you wish to sail for Rome?" Tristan's lips turned into a thin line, not too keen on answering her.

"His fiancée has been kidnapped, and we have set out to rescue her," Joseph explained, oblivious to the rising tension in the room.

"Fiancée, eh?" Zoráida mumbled. There was a moment of uncertainty—of how she would react. Alas, soon a sad smile touched her lips, her eyes locking with his. "If you manage to save her, I wish to meet her. It would be interesting to see the woman who managed to ensnare the heart of Tristan Hawthorne."


	2. Chapter 2

**THE BROKEN THRONE**

_Chapter 2_

_November 21st, 1454_

The cold, relentless days grew shorter as autumn left the island, leaving the way for the snow and ice. Cadherra saw winter nearing as the mountaintops had already turned white some weeks ago. The nobles and royals kept inside Adelton Hall as the fires in the grand chimneys were lit. Lavish parties were held by the monarch and his doting wife. It was a way to keep the aristocrats occupied during the dark nights-when stepping foot outside the castle was not an option.

But, what the king enjoyed the most, was spending quality time with his family.

His quick steps brought him from the throne room to his chambers, eager to see his spouse and child after a long and tedious day. The assemblies always drained him of energy, for his advisers never seemed to agree on anything.

When the monarch arrived at his quarters, he was caught by surprise as a small boy jumped right into an embrace.

"Father!" the youngling said, the little time they had been separated had been too much for the boy who admired his father so. Philip let out a small chuckle and looked to the corner of the vast chamber where the queen, his wife, sat reading by candlelight.

"Were you bored without me, Edmund?" he asked.

"Mother does not wish to play. She only reads," the young prince said, wrinkling his nose. His auburn hair tousled and fell into wide blue eyes. Marianne looked up from her book and smiled mischievously. Her dark blonde tresses fell in small waves around her face—the silky curls long and luscious. She looked lovingly at the scene of her son and husband playing.

Marianne Urdun was the daughter of Duke Jeremiah Urdun, lord of the north. Their marriage had been a political one at first where Philip—then the prince—had sought to ask for her hand to stabilize the power in the country.

Marianne put aside her book and went to her husband, letting him embrace her and plant a kiss on her front. Outside the frosted window, bathing in the silver beams of the moon, big snowflake floated down to cover the meadow bellow the castle. The lights from Hayes were obscured as the snowfall grew thicker—the winter winds gently coaxing the flakes to dance in the silence of the night.

She whisked something hidden from her wide sleeve, giving it to him as a sly smile spread across her fair features. It was a sketch, a small portrait that had been framed in light cedar wood and outlined in gold leaf. The sketch was formidable and the very likeness of Philip. Even though he had had many portraits made of him as he took the crown, they all showed the king, not the man. But this portrait was humane, showing another side to the king, more toned down, more caring and patient. Truth shone in his eyes; truth, and understanding.

"You have seen 39 winters, my love. I cannot give you much for I know you care little for gold or riches, so I give you this," Marianne said as she pushed the small portrait into his hands.

"A gift?" Philip asked bewildered. He stared at the face on the parchment as if he were staring into a mirror. Edmund reached for the sketch, for the eager child wanted to see as well.

"Remember our trip last summer to the Italian peninsula? I had that young painter you liked so much draw a sketch of you," she smiled, pleased that her husband liked her present.

"Bellini," he remembered. Philip looked at it again and his cold body turned warm at the memory of their early summer spent on the coast of the peninsula. It had been a brief visit to get away from their secluded island. He had gone through Rome and later up north. Marianne had come with him. Magnus had stayed in Angloa, taking care of matters of the court while Philip took a break from being king. He was allowed some weeks of freedom and peace that court could not offer him.

He gently pried away the picture from his son as Marianne went to pick up the young boy. "I shall always treasure it." Philip put it with care on the table next to their wide bed. "As I treasure and love you both," he said huskily, going in for a loving kiss.

_March 16th, 1459—Wessport_

"You have to keep him steady, Edmund!" came the powerful voice of the monarch as he watched his son on the horse. The young prince let out a heartwarming laugh as the beige stallion took an eager jump forward, happy to be running on the meadow.

Philip, Magnus, Marianne and some courtiers attended their first picnic of the year. The snows had melted a week ago and the last few days had been uncommonly warm. Some flowers had already sprouted, not that usual for that time of year. Philip had decided that it was time to get out of the constricting castle walls. He took one look around him and felt his heart swell at the warming sight of his family.

The king sighed at his luck. Nothing could compare to what he felt when he saw the joy spread on his wife's face as she conversed with one of her ladies-in-waiting. Nor would he change anything for the laughter his son emitted as he sat astride the cheerful stallion. The eager horse carried him in circles around the meadow bellow the castle. A pageboy ran at his side, keeping a steady hand on the animal so that it would not run away with the prince.

Philip's and Magnus' gazes crossed for a brief moment where both saw in their eyes the unexplainable love and joy they held for that moment. Magnus had married only a few weeks earlier, to a modest beauty from a northern region named Rebecca Trienne. She was already with child. When Philip saw his brother, his heart swelled. He felt pride then as well.

But it seemed a balance needed to be kept in that joyful splendor that was his life. Where Philip found happiness, worry and trouble soon followed. The early spring day turned darker as a new presence made itself known to him.

"Your Majesty," came the harsh and slow voice from his left. Philip turned around to see one of his advisors, someone he did not care much for. Lord Adam Flannigan had been sitting on his father's council and he was a powerful man best not trifled with.

"What is it, Adam," the king muttered. He did not hide the despise he held for the Lord. He had presented trouble ever since Philip's father's reign. The old lord was vicious and selfish at his best. He rarely took action unless it would benefit him. Philip was grateful that the old man had no children—no pesky heirs that would keep their father's bothersome presence in his life.

"I hear you have yet to give an answer considering our proposal on moving court," Flannigan said haughtily.

"I am yet to decide, my lord." Philip turned around. "But I can promise you that it will not be New London." There was almost a hint of malice lacing the monarch's voice. Lord Flannigan was from New London—where he held powerful connections. Philip had no wish to move court where he would give the old lord a more powerful playing-ground. Adam seemed irritated by the answer, but whatever other emotions had surfaced he kept in check. His hazel eyes squinted as he continued speaking.

"You should at least bring it up today during the council meeting. We all know Cadherra is not a suitable place to hold court," he said, almost daringly.

"My father seemed to think so. Are you saying my father—the late king—was wrong?" Philip asked, enjoying the flustered look growing on the old man's face as he questioned him.

"Of course not, Your Majesty, I deeply respected your father—may his soul rest in peace. But when his life started reaching its end, even  _he_  realized that he could have moved court to a more strategic place," Adam said.

Philip frowned, his relaxing morning had been ruined then, for thoughts of the court and his kingdom corrupted his mind. All he wanted was some time with his family.

"I will consider it during this meeting. But nothing is definite yet," Philip said and thus concluding their conversation. Adam understood the cue and swiftly moved away.

* * *

 

_February 24th, 1520 – Málaga_

He was awoken by the light tapping of a windowpane. The curtains were drawn back as the fresh morning air seeped into the room. Tristan opened his eyes and was met by a blue sky, not a cloud in sight.

His first thought was the chill that came in through the window. But it was not unpleasant. The wind felt good on his naked skin—it made him feel alive. He moved his gaze away from the window and stared at the ceiling. Tristan's vibrant blue eyes scoured the rustic beams, observing a spider building its web, preparing its trap for any flies that would enter the room. But it was futile, he thought—the day was still too cold for flies. The spider would have to wait a bit more—until the warmth of the sun reached the earth.

He was disoriented at first. The shirt he wore was still wet from the previous night's sweat, making him shiver slightly at the chill in the room. His limbs ached to move and as he did so, Tristan felt a dull ache in his left arm and shoulder. It was nowhere near the pain he had felt the previous night and it indicated that the severity of the infection was slowly dying away. He would heal, but not fast enough.

The masked man rested his head against the pillow, giving up on leaving his bed—for now. Instead, he opened his ears. For if he could not look out the window, he could at least listen; to the people walking on the streets, to the chatter of the Spaniards. A twinge of nostalgia washed over him. He had lived here with Sofia once, a long time ago. Tristan had been but a commoner during that time, but he'd taken the burdens of much more. Seven years seemed a lifetime to him.

The door creaked open slowly as a head peeked in. Zoráida went gracefully to his side and sank down next to Tristan as she saw that he was finally awake.

"How long have I slept?" his voice croaked. It was stiff from lack of use and there was till weakness in it. Zoráida's hands went to his shoulder, and they pushed aside the thin cotton shirt. She started removing the bandages, steadily, setting into a rhythm as she worked.

"It is midday. We did not wish to wake you," the young woman explained. The words rolled off her tongue, and she sounded like Sofia when she spoke.

"Joseph, Lucius and Ashiq?" he asked as he looked around the room, noticing for the first time that they were absent.

"I sent them with my brother to go see the city. They were getting restless." She drew away the final bandage and revealed the open wound. The swelling had gone down considerably and there was no new formation of puss. Zoráida released the breath she'd been holding. When she had arrived with Lucius the previous night, the young woman had feared for Tristan's life, certain that he would not last the night. She was glad that she was wrong.

As she continued taking care of him, her eyes went up and down, looking at a friend who had changed much since they had last met. He had been a young man then, just out of his teen years. He had been tall and lean, still growing into his limbs—they had been too long and his step awkward. Seven years seemed to have done him good when it came to his physique. He was as tall as ever, but through his soaked and torn shirt she saw lean muscle—a defined torso and arms. His countenance had changed as well. He was no longer the hothead with the temper of a fury, who would get into fights, to get away from the stigma his mask held. Last time she met him, he had arrived from the east with a gypsy.

"Where is Sofía?" she asked casually as she slowly started removing the herbs from the wound and cleaned it once more with alcohol.

"We went our separate ways a few months ago. I do not know where she went after that." Tristan grimaced at the memory of Sofia. He missed her—every moment of being in such a familiar place reminded him of her. Zoráida's caring hand came to rest on his arm.

"You will see her again, if Allah wills it," she reassured him. Her words made him smile.

"You still don't talk like a Christian," he scolded. "I thought you said you and your family converted."

A sad smile spread on her plump lips. To Tristan, the young girl he once knew had grown up to be a fine woman and there was a certain sadness that her situation held.

"My family did convert, but we can never leave centuries of traditions behind. I trust you, I will not pretend here, Tristan," Zoráida said, turning serious as she placed a thin needle with tongs over a lit candle before drenching it in alcohol. She placed the thread in the clear liquor as well.

"Is that why your father was taken by the inquisition? Because they unmasked you?" A stiff silence followed as she waited for the needle to cool down. Somewhere a bird chirped, landing on the windowsill—looking around for some food it might steal. When it found none, it flew away.

"No. Even if we remain true to our roots in our hearts, we try to blend in as much as possible. We go to mass like the rest of you, I even sneak in a confession here and there," she said, threading the needle, preparing to prick it into his skin. She spoke openly with Tristan, knowing he would not judge her. Zoráida knew that he had never been one to follow religion tediously or blindly like so many others. He had been accepting of her family's way of life. She always felt a sense of peace as a child, knowing she did not have to act whenever she'd be in his presence.

"Is this what you must suffer, for the love you possess for this land?" he asked, looking at her dark eyes as she started sewing. He ignored the small stabbing pain of the needle as it plunged into his skin.

"This city fell to the Christians many decades ago. I have never known anything else but this; living in secrecy, afraid that every day will be my last." A church bell rang somewhere in the distance—a lone bell that sounded once. It ripped through their conversation like a dagger ripping through fabric. "You will understand, to some degree," she said after the bell had died down, nodding at the mask.

"I hide my face to spare everyone the sight of it," he muttered, a hiss escaping him as the needle plunged deeper than Zoráida intended.

"You once told me that when I was old enough, you'd show me your face."

"Don't change the subject, continue with what you were saying. I like hearing your stories," he argued as if scolding a sister. Tristan felt fatigue rush over him as he settled back into the fluffy pillows.

"They're not stories, Tristan," she retorted angrily. A fiery passion bubbled under the surface, something that had not gone away since her childhood.

"You know what I mean," his dark voice spoke.

"Málaga was taken when my parents were young, I'm certain my father told you all about it when you were here," she continued.

"It was all Musa would ever talk about," Tristan sighed, remembering the light that shone in his old friend's eyes as he spoke of another era, another time. "He said that he frequented Granada under the reign of Boabdil."

"He would tell me stories as well, every night before bed," she lamented as she sewed monotonously. They both turned silent as they remembered the past, a past that now seemed foreign to them. The world was slowly changing into something new, something they had never seen before and they did not know what to make of it.

"Why was he killed?" Tristan insisted. Knowing why a great and kind man like Musa had been executed by the inquisition would give the masked man closure after finding out about his death.

Zoráida hesitated as her hands froze mid-air. She let her dark green eyes wander over to meet his enigmatic ones. They waited for her answer, for her to reveal what she had been trying to ignore since the loss of Musa and her brother.

"He was a great physician. But whenever he failed to cure a patient, he would be blamed for it. Even if the illness was great or the wounds deep—it did not matter. So a few years ago my father decided to retire. But one night a wealthy merchant came running to our house, saying his pregnant wife was dying. My father went with him, alone, and did all he could to save the woman and child, but it was no use, they both died. The merchant blamed my father and said that he killed them deliberately because they were Christian and therefore my father must hate them. The inquisition got wind of these accusations and came one night, taking him with them. They said they just had some questions and that he would most likely be back in the morning. But he never returned." Zoráida spoke with a strange detachment as she gently guided the needle, slowly closing the wound on his shoulder.

"They tortured him for days, or so they told my mother. He died after his heart gave out on the third day, the pain was too overwhelming for him. My brother soon followed the same fate after protesting," she whispered. An empty look spread in her eyes as something akin to hatred emerged from it. "I hope those priests end up in a similar situation someday so that they will feel the same pain they inflicted on him." Her jaw squared and her voice shook slightly as the words shot like arrows from her mouth.

"There is a saying in the east," Tristan began, his own thoughts grim after having heard of Musa's demise. "They believe that whatever you do—good or bad—it comes back to you." There was a slight pause as he let the meaning sink in. "I am sorry to hear what happened, Musa and your brother never deserved such treatment. Your father was one of the best men I ever knew," Tristan said, watching intently as she finished stitching his wound and proceeded to put an herbal paste on it.

"I hope that saying is true," she murmured softly, placing clean bandages over the wound. She was satisfied with her work and used it to push away the recent feelings of sadness and nostalgia that had emerged.

Both wallowed in the other's company. They felt like children, unaware of the world around them, protected by their innocence.

"I hear you are chasing after your fiancée," Zoráida whispered as she stared out the window, the song of the seagulls turned louder as the day continued its mellow pace.

"I wish to set sail tomorrow or the day after. I…must find her," he said trough gritted teeth. Zoráida felt him tense next to her. Determination and a hint of fear reflected in the way he held himself. She did not ask the specifics. Tristan had never been the one for explanations or long conversations, especially not when it came to his own personal life.

"I never thought you the marrying type," she continued. His masked head snapped up from the pillow, his eyes looking intently at her.

"You knew me when you were thirteen, how much could you have perceived then?"

"The mask only hides your face, but it cannot hide who you are—or were. You have greatly changed, Tristan. But I also saw what you were; a free soul, searching to flee the constrictions that society would put on you. That is why you stayed with Sofía—that is why the mask tormented you so. I never thought anyone would manage to tie you down."

When she had known him, he and Sofia would travel from town to town, province to province, country to country. They never stayed for long. Tristan would speak of his travels to her, speak of the wonders he had seen in France, Portugal, Italy and, even, North Africa. But her favorite stories were when he told her about the Far East, about a monastery he had spent the better part of his teenage years. He spoke of men with amazing fighting abilities, of a way of life very different to what he had seen in Europe. He spoke of philosophers and warriors.

Tristan remembered back on that time as well. When he had first met Sofia, she had taken him east, to the Ming Kingdom. Far up in the mountains, an old acquaintance of hers gave them hospice and the young boy was taught and trained with the rest of the students his age at the monastery. When he became older, they would frequent a large neighboring city and he made friends with an old retired general who lent him heaps of tomes about the art of war. Through sheer curiosity and will, Tristan would read those books day and night, having heated discussions with his friend who was amused that such a young boy would be interested in strategy. But, in the end, his studying had served him well.

"She is just a woman I am to marry, Zoráida," Tristan muttered.

"No, she is much more than that, or you wouldn't blindly chase after her in such a state."

"I  _care_  for her, yes. I made a promise, I gave my word to her that I would return to her, and I do not plan on breaking that word."

Zoráida scoffed at his weak explanation. "You cannot lie to me, Tristan. I see that there is more than care in your heart. For you to sacrifice the freedom you have guarded for so many years means she must be more to you."

_February 25th_

There came a moment where Christine could no longer move due to her back. She continued resting on her bed, never moving a muscle when Braun came to check on her. Her eyes would wander to the thick glass windows that stared at the never-ending sea.

Tristan was dead.

The thought hurt more than she could bare. Christine felt how she slipped, how she stopped caring about everything. At first, she had fought against it—the only fuel was her hatred for Braun. But soon she embraced it. Her mother would live out her life well in Adelton Hall—the only person left that she truly cared for was safe and it was all that mattered.

It was morning when Braun entered her quarters, the golden rays of the sun gliding across her face, warming her features. Behind him entered the ship's barber and physician. The man was barely a physician, he was a barber that had found an easy job working at ships with a decent pay and housing. When he saw the young brunette sprawled on the bed, her back and shoulders bare where her beige dress had been torn, his eyes widened. Christine's eyes locked with his for a moment as he neared her, but she made no move to turn away from him.

"I've been sent by his lordship, miss," he said nervously, feeling the intense stare of Braun on his back. She never answered him.

The barber sat down next to her and viewed the damage. He could remove the splinters, but there was little he could do for the infection. As he explained this to Braun, Christine stared at the rolling waves, letting herself be calmed by the motions they made. She was surprised when two rough hands started removing the embedded splinters. The young woman screamed out in pain as the hands forcefully plied away the pieces of wood.

When all was done, she let out a painful breath of air, biting back tears of pain that threatened to spill. The wounds had reopened and droplets of blood spilled from them. The barber frowned at the sight.

"She will need a real physician, my lord. I cannot treat these wounds as they should be treated here." He turned to face Braun and gathered new courage. "We should dock in the nearest harbor and search for someone there," he said.

"The nearest port is Málaga. That damned storm a few days ago set us off course," Braun murmured pensively. He looked at Christine's small form and his brows furrowed with slight worry. He did not wish to lose her to infection. Sleepless nights of worrying and thinking had finally given him an answer; he had other plans for her. "Let us dock there then," he decided, almost as if on a whim. The barber nodded and scurried away, leaving the two alone.

As soon as the door closed, Braun came over with a bowl of fresh water and some clean cloths.

"Keep still," the older man murmured as he plunged the white cloth into the cold water and then carefully cleaned the reopened wounds. She shuddered at the cold touch and gritted her teeth. Christine never showed her face, for the disgust it held at having Braun so near would be evident.

"I never meant for this to happen to you," he muttered softly, relishing in the sight of her lithe body. Braun could not help his hungry eyes wander over her form—she would do just fine, he thought. Christine did not believe in his words of comfort.

"Is the mighty Lord Braun apologizing?" she spat, flinching as she moved to look him. Christine fought hard to keep a mask of indifference when she saw dark eyes drill into hers. His thinning brown hair fell into his thin face, over his high forehead. He had found time to trim his goatee despite their situation. He looked as polished as she remembered him to be. Braun never answered her, instead he let out a dry laugh.

The disgraced lord put away the metal bowl and cloth and turned to leave. "Rest. I shall have someone take care of that back of yours," he reassured her.

When the door closed Christine let her head fall down. She bit her lip and moved around on the bed, fighting to sit up—a feat she couldn't accomplish for the last few days. She took the bowl and cloth, taking a part of the white fabric that was not stained with her blood—that was clean—and started washing her skin. It felt good when the cool water came in contact with her flesh.

Her heart clenched in a painful way as thoughts of Tristan popped into her mind. She knew of her care for the masked man, of how much she enjoyed his company. She never knew her care had grown so much. Now that they were parted—never to be seen again, Christine confessed to herself that she had grown to like Tristan, in her own way. She admired him, even though he was arrogant and frightening at times. The fact that the man she had kissed—the man who had promised to come back to her was dead, ripped her heart open.

Christine had never felt heartbreak before. She had read about it, heard about it, and even seen it. Never had the young woman expected it would be so painful; mentally and physically.

During the day it was easy to distract herself, listening to the men above deck, shouting, talking, and singing. But not during the long hours of the night. When the ship turned quieter than a graveyard in the early hours of the morning, she could not help as images of her fiancé's body slipped into the crevices of her mind. She imagined he lay on the cold palace floor, alone and ignored. She saw an unmasked face—twisted and disfigured, leaving him in shame. His face had been something he'd guarded for so long.

But, soon, another voice in her mind scolded her. How could she do this to herself? How could she be so pathetic? Yes, Tristan, the man she had grown to like so was dead, he was gone. But she was alive, her mother was alive, Angloa was safe—thanks to Tristan. There was something to return to. And what was more important, she found that she wanted to carry on, not for her father or her mother or even her country. No. This time it was different: Christine wanted to live for herself.

As she washed away the dirt and blood, she washed away her indetermination and fears. They were replaced by stronger, more determined feelings. Her eyes wandered to the glass windows that looked out over the vast ocean. Christine Vega would not give up. The young woman decided that whatever Braun had in store for her she would bear it—because she trusted herself. Because, beyond that horizon, something awaited her.

_February 27th_

"We have already wasted enough time. A ship sails for Rome later today and I want to board it," Tristan said through gritted teeth. He rested in the confinements of the small chamber, Zoráida paid little heed as she looked over the stitches and reapplied more herbs to the area.

Lucius sat in the small, uncomfortable chair and scratched his head. He knew Tristan was right, they had spent too much time in Málaga. If they wanted to see Christine again, they would have to leave soon. Joseph lay on the other bed, sleeping with his mouth open, a slight snore escaping now and then; he was exhausted. The young man had spent the whole night awake, first walking Zoráida and Ashiq home, then getting lost in the narrow streets. He had after returned in defeat, letting his shoulders sink further down as Lucius asked him to fetch the young Morisco girl again.

"You have grown more impatient since I last saw you," the young woman muttered, bandaging the shoulder. "But I guess it cannot be helped. You have a duty and a word to keep," she continued, staring off into the distance. The wound would be fine, Tristan could have left the previous day. Yet, she had asked him to stay. He reminded her of her past, of a time she had been happy—when her father and older brother had been alive. The masked man recognized the look in her eyes and his own expression turned grim. Lucius read the eyes of his friend and got up from the chair. He went over to wake Joseph. It was time to leave the city.

"We will wait for you outside, Tristan," he said, motioning for Ashiq to come. They were soon left alone and for the first time, Zoráida grew shy around him. She had always known what to say, how to look at him. Now she found no words. The reality was that he would leave. Tristan had no wish to stay with her or her family—as was expected.

"I hope you find the happiness that has escaped you for so long." She placed a hand on his masked face. "I hope you will be able to discard this prison you live in and truly be free, Tristan." Her words of wisdom drifted by him like a distant wind, stirring something that he always tried to ignore. How could such a young woman understand so much just by looking into his eyes?

"When we return, you should come with us, Zoráida. You and your whole family can live in peace in Angloa. No one will bother you under my roof," he said, ignoring words that rattled his core. Her piercing green eyes grew sadder as she looked away from him—out the window. He did not know what she gazed at—probably nothing—but he knew the look in those orbs, the emotions it held. It was something he had never truly gotten to feel.

" _This_ is and always will be my home." The light of day reflected on her tan face. "The way of life for my people has been extinguished long ago here. But this land; its sky, its earth, its winds, and trees—everything—is part of me and I will never be able to leave it." She turned to face him. "I stand like a tree here, with roots deeper than you can imagine. I was born here and I will die here. Even if I have to live in fear of expulsion, I will fight to remain here with all my strength," she said with such conviction that Tristan felt a twinge of guilt having asked her to come with him.

"You could never understand, you have always roamed this earth with Sofía, a free spirit. There is nothing tying you down."

"There is now, and she is being taken across the sea to a world she does not know," Tristan said as he stared straight into her eyes. He could not help Zoráida; a sentiment that weighed heavily on his shoulders. But he could help Christine.

Tristan got up from where he lay, feeling renewed after having rested. He turned to the bed, where his now clean shirt and doublet lay folded, courtesy of Hala. Zoráida looked away as the bare-chested man started dressing his upper body. She started packing her own things together, realizing that this was their goodbye.

They moved slowly, forcing their movements as neither wanted to part ways again. They both were like estranged brother and sister and as they walked out of the inn .After Tristan paid the innkeeper they stood, face to face. His mask, deep within the hood, managed to peek from underneath it, allowing her a view of his eyes. In the distance, her brother returned with Lucius and Joseph.

"I was never too good with goodbyes, you know that," Zoráida said, a faint smile spreading across her lips.

"I know." Tristan saw his friends approaching, wading through the masses of people that kept to the slightly wider main street. "I will try to stop by on the way back," he continued. Zoráida stepped in closer, a determined look spread across her features.

"When you come back, I will see your face," she said. It was not a request, nor a plea; so much was evident in her eyes. Instead, the words sounded like a premonition, a knowing that sparkled in her eyes. She caught him off guard and when he remained silent, she gave out a lighthearted laugh.

* * *

 

The wounds on her back had—as the barber predicted—festered. Christine had become delirious with a fever and she kept hallucinating. There was a time where Braun would not leave her side, making sure she survived. He kept muttering that it was of utmost importance that she remained alive.

They docked in the Spanish port early that morning, the sun was not yet up. Braun and his fellow men were on alert as he sent out one of the crew members to find a physician. The older man, Antoine Beauvais, was a Frenchman who had lived in Barcelona for a few years. He was familiar with the Spanish language and customs.

Antoine scoured the inner city, trying to find a suitable physician for the young woman the Angloan lord had in the main chamber. Many of the crew members who had decided to join Braun wondered who this noble lady was. A ship like theirs was not suitable for a woman like her, much less in the company of so many men. They had not been surprised when one of the men had broken in and almost raped the girl.

He stalked the streets, the sky brightening every second. Antoine paid little attention to the pedestrians that he pushed elbows with. There was one moment where, without looking, he bumped into someone.

"¡Perdón!" he exclaimed, looking up. His face dropped slightly as he was met by a tall man, hiding his face deep within a hood. Yet, Antoine spotted the throat—the skin hidden by what appeared to be dark leather. The man muttered something and walked past him. He was flanked by two other men. A blond, well-dressed man looked back at him.

"Did he get your shoulder?" the blond asked, a look of worry spread across his features.

"Yes, but the wound didn't open," the low voice said from within the hood. When the other's expression did not change, Antoine heard an audible sigh. "You worry too much, Lucius," he muttered. The Frenchman's eyebrow rose, he recognized the accent: Angloan. It was always strange to see Angloans leave their ships in foreign ports, especially if they were from higher classes. However, Antoine paid little heed to the strange trio.

He stalked through the narrow streets. Antoine kept his head low, keen on not getting mugged or getting into trouble. He knew it would be difficult to find a decent physician. Braun had told him that money was not a problem—not that it was what worried him. It was Sunday, soon everyone would attend mass; somewhere he should be too, but he guessed that Braun would not appreciate his sudden devoutness to God. Angloans and their lack of devotion. He would not be surprised if the whole island soon reformed its religion like some of the other European countries were speculating on doing.

Alas, it was still Sunday. It would be hard to get ahold of people now. Not that Christian physicians were that good, anyway. All knew that the Jewish and even the Moors were more refined and knowledgeable when it came to medicine.

So, without wasting much time, Antoine set out for the Jewish and mudéjar quarters to see if a kind—or greedy—soul would come back to the ship with him. It wasn't an ideal situation; like many other Europeans, he was prejudiced against those who weren't like him.


	3. Chapter 3

_March 30 th, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip sat in the Throne Room, watching as young and old men from far and wide presented themselves, eager to form part of his new assembly. He was growing tired of old men, from old generations with no mind to renew and improve their country. Philip wanted new men with new ideas, ready to break with the tedious traditions that seemed so embedded in their foundations. If Angloa was to grow and improve, other men than those who currently had a grip on her had to do it. That much the king understood.

So far, out of the hundreds of applicants, he had seen for the last few days, only a dozen stood out. There was one last man who would come to stand in front of him. Philip was tired and in a bad mood.

A young man with proud bearing stepped forward. He dressed in dark hoses and a green doublet with puffed upper arms, lined with silver. The young man had his fair hair cropped close to his shoulders and a fringe, fashionable at the time.

Philip didn’t even bother to ask his name; such a fashion snob would serve him no good.

“From where might you be?” he asked, as he had asked all the others. The tone of his voice was slightly off-putting. The king did not mask his fatigue.

“From the island of Cantabria, Your Majesty,” the lad said, confused that the king would not have his name first.

“Ah, yes, Cantabria. And what brings you here,” Philip continued, lacing his voice with boredom.

“Well, I thought I’d come and offer you some advice. God knows you are in need of it, Your Majesty,” the young man continued. The daring words were seen as an insult by many there present, but it piquPhilipp sat in the Throne Room, watching as young and old men from far and wide presented themselves, eager to form part of his new assembly. He was growing tired of old men, from old generations with no mind to renew and improve their country. Philip wanted new men with new ideas, ready to break with the tedious traditions that seemed so embedded into their foundations. If Angloa was to grow and improve, other men than those who currently had a grip on her had to do it. That much the king understood.

So far, out of the hundreds of applicants, he had seen for the last few days, only a dozen stood out. There was one last man who would come to stand in front of him. Philipp was tired and in a bad mood.

A young man with proud bearing stepped forward. He dressed in dark hoses and a green doublet with puffed upper arms, lined in silver. The young man had his fair hair cropped close to his shoulders and a fringe, fashionable at the time.

Philipp didn’t even bother to ask his name; such a fashion snob would serve him no good.

“From where might you be?” he asked, as he had asked all the others. The tone of his voice was slightly off-putting. The king did not mask his fatigue.

“From the island of Cantabria, Your Majesty,” the lad said, confused that the king would not have his name first.

“Ah, yes, Cantabria. And what brings you here,” Philipp continued, lacing his voice with boredom.

“Well, I thought I’d come and offer you some advice. God knows you are in need of it, Your Majesty,” the young man continued. The daring words were seen as an insult by many present, but it piqued the interest in the monarch. For the first time, Philipp took a good look at him and saw two deep-set gray eyes, staring fearlessly into his own. The man looked to be in his twenties, but there was a wisdom in his orbs that spoke beyond his years.

“And what advice would that be?” Philipp said, humoring the young man.

“Well,” he continued, his commanding voice settled into a pleasant tone as he started explaining. “I think Your Majesty made an excellent choice when you decided to bring in some fresh opinions and people into the folds of court; for now I am sure that you are more perceptive to the faults in your kingdom.”

Philipp leaned forward, intrigued by the words. “Continue,” he said.

“You have done little else but listen to your old advisors, Sire. I understand these things can be complicated, and I have little experience in the matter. But I do understand one thing, that listening to the people is the most important thing any king can do, and you have been turning a deaf ear to them,” the man continued. Philipp knew he was right. Ever since he had been crowned he had been so occupied with making sure the most basic things worked, that he had paid little heed to anything else.ed the interest in the monarch. For the first time, Philip took a good look at him and saw two deep-set gray eyes, staring fearlessly into his own. The man looked to be in his twenties, but there was a wisdom in his orbs that spoke beyond his years.

“And what advice would that be?” Philip said, humoring the young man.

“Well,” he continued, his commanding voice settled into a pleasant tone as he started explaining. “I think Your Majesty made an excellent choice when you decided to bring in some fresh opinions and people into the folds of court; for now I am sure that you are more perceptive to the faults in your kingdom.”

Philip leaned forward, intrigued by the words. “Continue,” he said.

“You have done little else but listen to your old advisors, Sire. I understand these things can be complicated, and I have little experience in the matter. But I do understand one thing, that listening to the people is the most important thing any king can do, and you have been turning a deaf ear to them,” the man continued. Philip knew he was right. Ever since he had been crowned he had been so occupied with making sure the most basic things worked, that he had paid little heed to anything else. 

“And what do the people say?” he asked.

“Well, they starve, Your Majesty. They are heavily taxed by your brother and other lords who feel they can do whatever they please as you do not seem to be paying attention.” Some of the other lords present gasped at the young man’s words.

“How impertinent!” one of them exclaimed, seemingly offended on the king’s behalf. But Philip liked what he heard. He saw wisdom, laced with some arrogance. In some senses, the man reminded him of himself when he was younger. He liked the truthfulness of his words, but also how he delivered those words so expertly.

He leaned back in his chair and looked at the young man. “What is your name?”

“Thomas Athar, Your Majesty,” the young man answered.

“Thomas Athar,” Philip repeated as if saying the words would help him decide. He eyed the man once more. “Are you son of some lord? I swear I have heard that name before,” the king said.

“No, Sire, I am no lord’s son. My grandfather was a mercenary, he fought in the war of independence many years ago, before your or my time, and he won many battles. He was knighted by one of the three on the battlefield of Sorossa,” Thomas explained. Philip snapped his fingers.

“Of course!” he said, delighted to hear the words. “Even though you are not of noble birth, your words and convictions are reminiscent of a true nobleman. Perhaps you are more so than some of my lords in here,” he chuckled, looking around. Some lords were visibly offended but never spoke up against their king.

“I am glad to hear it, Sire. I wish to prove that I can live up to these expectations you have of me and more,” Athar answered haughtily. It provoked yet another lighthearted chuckle in the king, an arrogant eyebrow rose as he contemplated the young man. It did not take long for the monarch to decide.

“Indeed,” he said. “Then so be it, Thomas Athar. I shall have you for my council and have you at my side. I hope you will not disappoint me,” the king smiled enigmatically.

Athar bowed deeply, never imagining that he—the grandson of a lowly knight—had just come to be a royal advisor, by his own merit.

_May 3 rd, 1461 – Cadherra_

“These are alarming reports, Your Majesty, and they are growing in number.” A man around Philip’s age stood in front of him, worry creased his sunburnt face as he fiddled with the parchment in his hand. They sat in the assembly room of Adelton Hall. His new and old advisors listened attentively. The man continued skimming through the words on the parchment that had been handed to him during the early hours of the morning.

“We cannot shut the people out when they need us, now more than ever,” the king said, ignoring Lord Flannigan snickering at him when he thought himself unobserved. Athar agreed as he silently nodded along with the king.

“If the plague spreads, it could wipe out half of the country. Then who would there be left to govern?” asked a young snarky lord, his slanted eyes turned into two malicious slits as he cast a glance in Athar’s direction. The new addition of Athar and some other men had not been welcomed by the others. The older generations would often talk of the young newcomers, saying they poisoned the mind of the arrogant king.

“If we sit quietly on our behinds, the plague will indeed get worse,” Philip cried, outraged with the lord. “It is indeed easy to withdraw into your castle and wait out the storm, but not that many people are as lucky. We need physicians to care for the sick, we need people to remove the bodies from the streets. But most of all, we need to distribute food, for those households that have already lost their laboring relatives,” came the wise words of the monarch. His talks with his new advisors had opened his eyes to the needs of his people.

“The physicians do not know how to cure this disease,” spat another lord.

“No, Lord Raleigh, but they can ease the pain of the suffering,” scolded Athar in his light tone. “The least we can do is show compassion for the suffering and help with what we can,” he continued. His stern look managed to silence the arrogant lord whose mouth turned into a thin line.

“And who will pay for all of this? I am sure that few people will remove rotting bodies on the streets for free, just as the physicians will not willingly risk their lives tending to the sick for free,” commented Flannigan.

“The crown will cover what it can, and the rest I will pay out of my own pocket,” growled Philip, wishing for the old crow to be silent for once. Flannigan did not speak against the king, but his displeasure was evident in his frown. The wrinkles grew deeper in his forehead—if such a thing was possible. The white tufts on the balding head flew with him as he quietly shook his head.

Magnus, also present at the assembly, had scarcely spoken. He had been reprimanded by his brother a few weeks earlier. Having been assigned to keeping up the royal treasury his greedy wife, Rebecca Trienne, had seen it as an opportunity. The minx had managed to persuade him to put a few coins in his own pocket, to add to their own wealth. Magnus had looked at that innocent expression as she patted her ever-growing belly and he could not help himself. He had been ashamed, feeling his heart beat as he filled a small purse with gold coins, grinding his teeth as he felt the leather weighed down by the metal.

It had been easier the third and fourth times. By the tenth or so he did not even think about it. But he had swiftly been unmasked, by a young lad who, after having gone through the records, had found something amiss. Soon whispers that the brother of the king—the prince—stole money from the crown floated through the small streets of Hayes. They spread to Coldwick and up north, even reaching New London. Thomas Athar had been the one to muster up enough courage to openly speak against Magnus.

And Philip had listened to that young man.

Magnus looked down at his feet. His brother had never expressed it in words, but he knew that he had lost some of his trust. It was a hard blow to the prince who looked up to Philip in so many ways. He had failed him with such dishonorable conduct. Philip had hushed the whole thing down, but the damage was already done.

“I will pay from my own pocket as well,” Magnus spoke up, after having gathered enough courage. All faces turned to meet his. Philip seemed surprised at first, but then a genuine smile spread across his features as his brother tried to redeem himself.

“Thank you, brother. Your generosity will surely inspire others to do likewise,” Philip encouraged in a grateful manner, taking a quick look around the room. Some other lords voiced their willingness to contribute and soon, Philip had enough funds to care for the whole country, in case the plague spread.

“Lord Vega,” the king said, turning to a man at the end of the table. His lavender blue eyes met those of the king. “You will take charge of this new project,” the king commanded. Enrique Vega, of Spanish descent, gave a small nod. He had been added to the king’s council at the same time as Athar had. The Spaniard had married a local Angloan beauty, and he had decided to settle down on the island—as was his wife’s wish.

“I will, Your Majesty,” he answered in his Spanish accent.

“Good. Then I declare this session ended.” The king dismissed his advisors, keen on returning to his wife and son.

* * *

_February 27 th, 1520 - Málaga_

He watched with a sinking heart as yet another door closed in front of his face. No one was willing to help him, despite the money he offered. Antoine stared at the purse filled with gold coins. These people might not be as greedy as he had thought.

While he asked around, he found that there had been a man who used to help people like him; Musa the physician, living north of the city. Musa himself was dead, but his daughter had learned her father’s trade and would come to the aid of those who asked—if she deemed them worthy.

The Frenchman wasted no time as he slowly trailed the path to Musa’s house. The stench of the city was not as prevalent here. Incense and floral perfumes wafted heavy through the air, masking the foul smells of waste that the newer quarters saw.

He arrived at a horseshoe door, the bright cedar wood was faded, not as contrasting against the bright walls as it used to be. He knocked—the sound drumming in his ears as he prepared for yet another rejection. Antoine heard cautious steps from behind the door and someone opening the small panel at eye level.

“¿Sí?” came a weary voice as two dark eyes looked out from behind the door.

“I seek Zoráida,” Antoine said in his accented Spanish. He tried hard to mask the tiredness in his voice from having walked around for so many hours. The sun was still high in the sky, burning at him despite the chilly February air.

The eyes of the woman flashed. “You will not find what you seek here, buenos días,” she hissed, slamming the panel shut. Antoine heard mutters as the woman moved away from the door.

“I can pay,” Antoine exclaimed in desperation. The girl Zoráida was his last hope. Antoine was hopeful that she and her family would be desperate enough for money to accept his offer. The woman still moved away, but now a new voice arrived. It was softer, younger and spoke a language Antoine did not understand. A heated discussion emerged from the two women as he stood there, clutching the bag of money. He knew how it looked; he, a complete stranger, asking for a young woman to come with him.

A sigh sounded and soon the cedar door glinted open. Someone sneaked out from behind it. Antoine’s eyebrows reached his hairline as he caught sight of the young beauty before him. Her enigmatic eyes drilled holes into his soul as an exotic air of indifference extended around her.

“I am Zoráida, who asks for me?”

“My master, an Angloan. His… erm…  _fiancée_  took a bad fall on deck when we came here and her back scraped across the wood. It became infested with splinters that have now infected the whole area. We hope that you could take a look at it,” he explained. When she made no move to answer him, Antoine whisked forth the heavy leather purse, clinking it in his hand. “My lord would be very generous,” he added, hoping she would accept. However, the action seemed to have insulted the young woman.

“I do not so readily accept an offer because of money. Who knows what would happen to me if I followed you,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

“I give you my word that no harm shall befall you, señorita— “

“I am sure you would believe that,” she muttered. But, instead of thinking of the money, Zoráida thought of the wounded woman. “How badly hurt is she?”

“The barber who removed the splinters says it’s beyond his reach to treat her.”

“You removed the splinters?”

“Yes,” Antoine said, hesitating as her tone turned grave.

“It could have worsened the wound if you did not do it properly,” Zoráida reprimanded, thinking of how Tristan had looked when he had come to her. She wouldn’t be surprised if the woman’s wounds were in a similar state. Zoráida squared her jaw as she started weighing the cons and pros. It did not take long for the young woman to decide.

“Where is she?”

“On my master’s ship, in the harbor. It is the only Angloan ship in port, you will recognize it by its flag,” he said, feeling the knot lessen as he realized that she was considering going with him.

“Very well, I shall go. But before I do I need my supplies and friends accompanying me. I cannot afford to trust blindly in strangers,” she said, wary of the Frenchman before her. “There are many that trade in slavery these days. I do not wish to become one.” Antoine grew offended at the remark.

“Madam, I would never—“

Zoráida only shook her head. “It does not matter how honorable you say you are, I will not be taken from my family. I shall meet you at the ship in two hours. I will bring my father’s friends with me,” she finished, ignoring Antoine’s offended expression. She took in his appearance; he could indeed be working on a trade ship, one of those who took women as slaves and brought them to the other end of the Mediterranean. The market for such goods was rewarding and many favors could be bought trading with human lives.

Antoine held his tongue, knowing he could not afford to lose the last person that might help him. He bowed stiffly and set out back to the ship. If the two hours had passed and Zoráida had not yet come, he would ask a small group of men to come with him and bring her by force. Or he would threaten her with the Inquisition, he knew how afraid the  _moriscos_  were of those priests.

* * *

Seagulls flew over the Spanish town Málaga. It was crowded by the harbor as the tide rose, many were ready to sail to new lands across the Atlantic and the Mediterranean.

Tristan stood on deck, his cape clinging to his body, his hood down, letting the salty winds caress his masked face. Now that he was better—healed, he could finally enjoy what he had missed so much; being at sea.

There was something magical about the far ocean where the never-ending waters met the broad horizon. He stared at the line that would never come close no matter how fast you sailed toward it. The crewmen on board the ship, most were from the Italian peninsula or the Spanish coastal town, ran around, preparing the boat.

“I cannot say I will enjoy this trip,” Lucius muttered, walking up beside him. Tristan, curious about such a statement, turned to ask his friend why he had uttered such words. He grew silent when his question was answered. The young man next to him was already showing signs of nausea, his skin slightly paler and growing clammy.

“Did you have a similar reaction on the ship from Angloa?” There was a hint of amusement in his voice that irked Lucius.

“You know I did,” Lucius muttered back, gritting his teeth. “Blasted ship and the men who invented sailing.” The words provoked a slight chuckle in the masked man. Heads from the Italians and Spaniards turned, their eyes growing wide—who knew the masked man could laugh? He seemed like a menacing giant in his threatening attire and imposing mask. The ship’s captain had almost not allowed him as a passenger the previous day. But some coaxing from Tristan and a few gold coins had been enough to persuade the stout man.

“Well, hopefully, everything will go smoothly,” Tristan said, turning grim. “Roads may have highwaymen and bandits, but the seas have storms and pirates.”

“Storms  _and_ pirates?” came another voice. It was Joseph, joining them after having explored the ship. “The captain should pay  _us_  for being on this ship. If we were attacked, I doubt very much that most of the sailors here could defend themselves,” Joseph said hotheadedly, resting his hand on his sword.

“You would not want to meet the pirates of the Mediterranean,” Tristan cautioned, turning to stare at Joseph. “Ghastly men, blackguards of the worst sort,” he continued, concealing a faint smile as the younger man’s casual demeanor gave way to worry.

“I have heard some pirates are cannibals, that they eat their victims,” Lucius joined in. Teasing Joseph helped him ignore his slight nausea while it helped Tristan stop worrying about Christine, even if for a slight moment. Joseph let them do as they pleased, happy that he could help both his friends take their minds off their worries for an instance.

“You snicker like brothers; the strangest brothers I have ever seen!” a soft accent traveled their way that they could not place. It softened his English pronunciation. A tall, middle-aged man with curly raven locks and black eyes walked over to them. He bore a short, shaggy beard that hinted at a goatee underneath it, alas it had probably been weeks since its last trimming. He looked roguish as he had one ear pierced, dressed in Venetian clothes and kept a small, ornate pistol tied next to his hip. It was the captain of the ship.

“If we are brothers, they treat me like the youngest,” Joseph snickered, giving the other two a playful glare.

“That is because you  _are_ the youngest,” Lucius retorted, crossing his arms.

Joseph looked at Tristan, pointing at him in disbelief. “Are you certain?”

“I can assure you, you are the youngest, Joseph,” Tristan deadpanned. The look on Joseph’s face provoked a hearty laugh in the captain.

“I was against having you on board, but it seems you three shall provide me with much entertainment on this long journey. Come, my friends, I will show you to your quarters.”

“We are much obliged, Captain…?”

“Juán Mejías, at your service.”

The three of them started following Juán to go under deck when something caught Tristan’s eye.

“Is that not an Angloan flag?” he stated out loud. Juán turned around and followed Tristan’s gaze to look at the ship he stared at.

“You have a good eye, señor. It arrived earlier today—some merchant ship. Apparently, one of the men on board was wounded. It must have been the captain or the second in command because they sent out someone to search for a physician,” the Spaniard explained.

“I see information spreads fast here,” Lucius commented.

“But of course, señor. I always make it my business to know everyone else’s business.” Juán blinked, flashing a charming grin. “Now, come with me so that I might show you where you can rest. We sail shortly, the tide is almost ready.

The three men followed him, but Tristan’s eyes kept wandering to the Angloan ship. Something about it seemed strange to him. A shiver went through his spine and his sore muscles tensed. It could be Braun’s ship, but Braun had set out a few hours before them. The other fact was that they had spent a few nights in Málaga, making it impossible for the lord to arrive just now. No, it could not be Braun, and therefore Christine could not be on board that ship.

* * *

It had started to get dark when the small group made its way through the lit streets of Málaga. Most of them dressed to blend in, even Zoráida. She knew that it was better that way. Her father’s friends had given it no second thought when her brother had run around their neighborhood, rallying them to her side. They had accepted a small pay to escort her safely to the ship and back to her home. This time it was not Tristan Hawthorne who sought her aid, but an unknown stranger on an unknown ship. She would not take the same foolish decision she had done when she followed Lucius, only accompanied by her brother. This time she would play it safe.

There, at the docks, they saw the Angloan ship and the group cautiously neared it. By the ramp leading up on deck she saw the Frenchman from before; Antoine. He looked around, worried that Zoráida would not show. But then he saw her shouldered by many fearsome men—dressed like common Christians, almost blending into the masses—almost.

“You are late.” Antoine frowned as she neared him. A green bag was thrown over her shoulder, her enigmatic eyes pierced into his.

“But I am here,” she said in a tone just as enigmatic as her stare. It made the Frenchman seize with his reprimand, only nodding. He knew she was right, it was better that she showed up late than never showing up at all. Zoráida looked around, few of the sailors were on deck. The newcomers did get a few curious glances cast their way from the men who stood on the boat, working hard to prepare it for its next voyage.

“Come, I will show you to her,” Antoine said, motioning for her to follow him. Zoráida stepped on the ramp, hesitant at first, but when her father’s friends made a move to follow her, as well as Ashiq, she breathed out. The young woman knew she was safe in their company. Antoine made no move to stop them, she had requested their presence after all.

They walked across the deck, being swabbed clean by a very young sailor, not yet out of his teen years. He did not look up from his task as the group passed him by. He seemed subdued by his station, always keeping his eyes on the floor, to avoid trouble.

Antoine showed them to the door leading to the main chambers below deck. The broad-shouldered men had trouble getting through the small door and some had to go sideways as they squeezed through. Yet, they never complained about it. After followed a series of narrow wooden corridors until they came to a shut door. Antoine knocked on the door and received a terse response. But before he entered, he turned to the group behind him.

“This is her ladyship’s chambers. I suspect she will not want a group of unknown men to be allowed entry. I must, therefore, ask that the rest of you stay here and only allow the girl access,” he explained to the men. But they did not understand him as they did not speak English. Zoráida translated what Antoine had said in a language that was not Spanish, probably some form of mozárabe. Her words did not please them.

“We cannot protect you if you go in there alone,” one of them said to her.

“You will be right here, outside of the door, and if I should shout, you will hear me. Trust in that, I beg of you,” she begged in a sweet voice, trying to calm the situation down. She did not need them to become agitated—in turn making the inhabitants of the ship wary of them. A squabble was not what they needed now. They nodded after having whispered amongst themselves in unison.

“I will go in alone, but my friends will stay right here, just in case,” she said haughtily. Antoine nodded in agreement, thus opening the door for her.

Zoráida stepped into the chamber, trying to ignore the slight twinge of nervousness that ignited in her being as she was left to fend for herself. The young morsico girl swallowed deeply before she took in the surroundings.

The chamber was small. Directly in front of her, the main part of the wall was made up of windows, giving an impressive view of the horizon. The sun had started to go down but it was still light, only the colors had turned a shade deeper, a hint of orange now emerged in them.

Next to the door, a little part away from it was a grand bed, suited to hold at least two people. Sprawled on it lay the still form of a woman. Her golden locks covered her face and her back was bared, the bandages removed, showing the red and irritated skin where blisters had formed from the removed splinters. White covers had been brought up to just above her hips, giving her some modesty. Next to the bed, on the other side, sat a man in a chair, staring out at the horizon, deep in thought. He was older than the girl and Zoráida guessed he was around fifteen or twenty years her senior. His brown hair had started thinning at the temples and his goatee gave his angular face an even more angular look that did not do him any favors. His face turned to meet hers and something in his dark eyes made Zoráida wish she were somewhere else. She had always trusted her intuition; it told her not to trust this man.

“Ah, I see the physician has finally arrived,” he drawled in a slightly irritated tone. The man rose up from the chair, standing tall and proud as he walked over to her in heavy steps. “I could not believe it when Antoine told me it was a woman that had agreed to help my Christine,” he continued. The remark made Zoráida raise a delicate eyebrow and scoff, offended.

“Yet, here I am, you agreed to get my help,” she pointed out.

“I hope we made the right choice,” the man said, a thin smile spreading on his lips, appearing false and unnerving to her.

“Well then, Mr…?” she trailed off, not knowing his name.

“I am  _Lord_ Oscar Braun and this here is my fiancée. We were on our way back from Venice when she took a bad fall and hurt her back,” Braun explained. Zoráida looked at the back. Those were wounds sustained from more than a bad fall. She eyed him again but did not voice her thoughts, instead, she went over to the young woman, still not having shown any signs of lucidity in her presence. The young woman sat down on the bed and her hands went to touch the arm of the blonde.

“My lady,” she said in her accented English. Christine turned to face her and Zoráida took in the beautiful face of the woman before her. She saw someone very different from her staring with a subdued fire in her eyes.

“I will request that you leave me alone with the patient, my lord,” Zoráida said as she started emptying the contents of the bag on the vast bed next to her. Braun frowned at the words.

“I’d rather be near my intended,” he demanded, moving to sit down on the chair again.

Zoráida rose up, a contained anger present in her exotic features. “I mean to remove the covers of this woman to examine for more wounds. You will have to leave if you have any respect for her modesty,” she snickered. Braun’s mouth turned into a thin line.

“I will be standing right outside,” he finally said after a pregnant pause.

When the door had closed, Zoráida let out a breath and checked on Christine. Slowly, working out of habit, she started treating the wounds, as gently as she could. First, she disinfected them, washed them with alcohol, taking great care not to hurt the young woman too much. After she checked for any more splinters that the barber might have missed. Zoráida took some sterilized pincers and set out to pluck them from the irritated flesh. It was a long task, monotonous, and the minutes went by in complete silence.

“You will not scar, not too much,” she finally said to the woman she was treating. Zoráida received no answer.

“Did your fiancé do this to you?” she asked after a while, completely ignoring that the question was out of place.

“He is not my fiancé,” came the reply. Hatred laced the Angloan’s voice as she turned her head to face Zoráida. The response did not surprise the latter.

“That much is obvious,” Zoráida responded. She continued plucking small pieces of wood that had embedded itself deep within the skin of the fair woman.

“He did not do this to me, but he might as well have,” Christine continued. Tears of pain streamed down her face as the pincers dug into her open flesh, but she refused to scream out in pain.

They both said little after that. Christine felt herself relax at the delicate touch of the unknown woman that tended to her. She let her mind wander as the last of the splinters were removed. Zoráida started applying a herbal paste to the wounds, letting it seep into the open skin, to heal it faster. After, she started putting on sterilized bandages, washed in vinegar, taking care to do so slowly.

“I have a group of my father’s friends with me, here outside. I am certain that if I asked, they could get you out of here and we could hide you at our home,” Zoráida offered. It was spontaneous on her part. She had not thought it through. But seeing the subdued suffering in the foreigner sparked something within her. Perhaps it was pity, or a sense of solidarity. 

Her words inspired hope in Christine, there was a chance she might escape Braun. She turned to look at Zoráida. “How many men?” Her words were barely a whisper.

“Five-seven counting me and my youngest brother,” she said. The hope lit inside of Christine swiftly disappeared. Five men would not stand a chance. Between Braun and Antoine out in the hallway, half of them would perish, even more: Braun was an experienced swordsman after all.

“It is not enough,” she said, feeling her voice tremble. “They will kill all of you before we make it to port. If we made it off the ship and ran to Málaga, Braun would stop at nothing to get to me. I am part of a personal hatred he held for someone,” she said distantly.

“Someone you love?”

“It is complicated,” Christine trailed off. All she received was a smile.

“Sometimes revealing our pains will help us deal with them,” Zoráida offered. She suspected Christine had no one else to talk to.

The trembling sigh revealed the pained state of mind of the wounded Angloan. “He killed the man I was to marry.”

“I am sorry,” Zoráida said distantly. She felt Christine’s pain. She had not lost a lover, but she had lost a father and a brother. She knew the pain that death of someone close brought on. “I wish I could help you.” They both sat there for a while in silence, enjoying each other’s company.

She had bound the bandages a long while ago, but yet the morisco girl lingered. Zoráida took Christine’s hands in her own and stared deep into her eyes. Her emerald irises glowed in the absence of daylight as the sun started sinking deeper and deeper on the horizon. A deep connection of understanding passed between both strangers.

She felt the other reach for something and Christine glanced down. Her eyes widened as a small curved knife with a soft leather sheath in white was placed into her hands. Zoráida closed Christine’s hands around it and looked back into the thankful depths of the woman she could not save. Zoráida usually carried such daggers with her as protection—against whatever might come. But it was clear that Christine needed it more.

“Hide this. Maybe someday it will become useful to you,” she whispered. Christine gripped the strange knife tightly—as if it were her only lifeline, her only comfort in the world.

“Thank you,” she said, a pained expression flashed across her face. She promptly hid the knife under the pillows she had been resting on. Zoráida, still unable to leave, fixed the last of the bandages in place. Something in the young morisco girl worked against her as she finally stood up. She did not want to go from that young woman, broken as she was; in body and soul. Yet, Zoráida had seen something in the depths of her lavender eyes, a small fire, a sleeping tiger, ready to be awakened at the right time. She hoped it would be sooner than later; if the girl wished to live in this harsh world.

She monotonously gathered her things. Their exchange had been a brief one, but a meaningful one. Zoráida bowed deeply before going to the door, a gesture of respect. Maybe they could have been friends in another life—maybe.

_February 28 th_

When morning dawned on the last day of the month, Braun went to inspect a sleeping Christine. She was dressed in a thin, white dress. Its back was cut open, revealing the bandages, sullied by the herbal paste that the morisco girl had placed on her the previous evening.

A door shutting slowly woke her from her slumber. Zoráida had given her something to drink the previous night, which had sent Christine into a dreamless sleep. She had not rested so well in weeks. She looked out the window and saw that they were out at sea once more.

“It seems that the morisco girl worked wonders on you,” Braun said in a merry tone as he went to sit down on the chair next to the bed. Christine felt the blade under her pillows, gently clutching it, feeling safe having a weapon so close to her person.

“She did,” was all Christine managed without lashing out at him.

“She left some more of that paste and clean bandages for me to change,” he continued.

“I’d rather Antoine do it,” Christine snapped, her voice short and stern. She’d rather have anyone else than Braun touch her at the moment. He sighed.

“I’m trying, Christine—“

“I am  _Miss Vega_  to you. You have no right to use my Christian name after what you did to me, to my fiancé,” she spat. Braun was taken back by her ferocity.

“It seems the good night’s rest has also given you your spirit back,” he murmured, something in his voice unsettled her.

“Get out,” she hissed, turning to face him, thus letting go of the knife that was stored under her pillow. When Christine sat up she got a clear view of his face and did her best to hide her own expression. Perhaps it was because she had been so long with Tristan, getting used to his mask, to only be able to read him by the eyes and the movement of his mouth. Now Braun’s face was like an open book to her. She saw lust shining in those dark depths as his eyes trailed over her lithe form, taking in every little curve of her body. But there was something else she saw there, something she had seen before. It was a look she had welcomed in Tristan but abhorred in Braun. It was worry. The expression was overshadowed by the want that was so evident in his eyes. She could understand why, she was dressed in barely anything, leaving little to the imagination. Braun was a man at sea, far away from any other woman that could offer him the pleasures he so clearly needed. But she could hint at worrying, different from Tristan’s but clearly there.

Braun worried for her, in his own twisted way. The notion disgusted her. But soon her mind started working. She could benefit from this, she could kindle this small flame within her.

Christine settled back in the pillows when he did not make a move to leave. She faked a painful hiss—as if the movement had aggravated the wound. Braun squared his jaw while his eyes drifted to her back.

“I can send for Antoine, but I do not know where he is. It could take some time, and I see that you are clearly in discomfort,” he said.

“Very well,” Christine said, lacing her voice with pain. “I will let you change the bandages, but only this time. Then I want you gone from my sight,” she spat, glaring at him from the corner of her eye. She saw a twitch in his lips. He probably thought her newfound ferocity charming—what a strange man he was.

Braun went to sit next to her on the bed and gently put aside her golden locks, ignoring how his blood was currently traveling south as he stared at her bandaged back. When Christine made no move to push him away, he carefully removed the bandages, one by one, revealing the skin beneath. He cleaned away the paste with fresh seawater, satisfied that the redness had died down and that the blisters were smaller. He cleaned his own hands and started rubbing the paste on her back. He did it slowly, taking pleasure in feeling the soft skin beneath his hands.

Christine had to fight hard not to take the knife from beneath the pillow and plunge it deep into his heart. She could hear his breath quicken and she imagined what he must be feeling and thinking at the moment. She had never seen Braun like this—or perhaps she had always been blind to such things until she had wanted to see them. Every touch of his on her skin made her want to vomit. She could only imagine him piercing Tristan with his sword, unmasking him and leaving his exposed face for the world to see. But she pushed through her own feelings, telling herself that when she was healed, there would be many opportunities for her to escape. Her hand slipped once more under the pillow and Christine touched the knife that lay hidden. 

 


	4. Chapter 4

_May 19 th, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip paced back and forth in that desolate hallway. Even though they were practically at summer’s doorstep, a coldness overtook his body and soul. The worry was so present on his face that no one close to him wanted to disturb. His hands were clasped behind his back as he felt the weight of the world on his shoulders.

The door next to him suddenly opened. The king rushed to the physician. But when he heard the sobs of his wife, he understood it was no use. Marianne tried to contain her cries as she sat by the bed of her son, not wanting to leave his side.

The physician’s face was reddened with anxiety and almost guilt. “Your Majesty—“

“My son, will he be alright? Is it just a cold as we suspected?” Philip tried to stay brave and not let too much vulnerability show through as he spoke with the aging man before him.

“The prince is showing the first signs of the plague,” the man before him forced the words— strangled and strange. It sounded like a mere whisper to Philip then. For which parent could even begin to comprehend that their child was struck by a mortal disease? At first, Philip would not accept it. He felt older then—as if his years had suddenly caught up with him. The king was no longer that once young and charismatic prince, nor the arrogant monarch who would do anything for his country.

He was only a parent, faced with the potential death of his child.

The king stared emptily into the eyes of the physician. “Is there anything we can do?” he asked in a voice so hopeless that the physician felt the need to step back.

“We caught it at an early stage. There might still be hope, Your Majesty.” But Philip did not believe him. The look in the medic’s eyes had told him enough. And the cries of his wife bore straight into his soul.

He pushed past the man to join Marianne and Edmund. “I urge Your Majesty to be cautious. The disease is highly contagious,” the physician said after him. But Philip didn’t listen, just as the queen had not listened.

He then saw the small figure of a boy, shivering as fever took him. His pale face was twisted in pain as he gently cried. Marianne cried with him, not wanting to let go of his hand. She turned to meet her husband, looking as lost as he felt. “Oh, Philip!” she exclaimed, opening her arms so that they might embrace. He gently hugged her, trying to be strong for the two of them. Marianne did not feel like a queen then. She felt all her power as a monarch was useless if it could not be used to help her child.

“They say there might be a chance. Tonight will decide Edmund’s fate,” she hiccupped. Philip gritted his teeth. But he masked his worry with a smile.

“Then I am sure our son shall live. I shall stay with him—“

 “No!” she argued. “You cannot be here. If it is the plague—" Marianne could not believe what she was saying. “Then you must be kept safe.”

“And what of you, my love?”

“A king is invaluable, a queen is replaceable,” she sighed into his neck, her tears dampening his skin. Philip reacted strongly against those words. She never knew how invaluable she was to him.

As night fell, the monarch told his servants that he was retiring. When the castle seemed quiet, he snuck out of his bed. Philip silently walked with one wax candle in hand to the chapel.

As he entered the modest construction, the cross caught his eyes. The king was not precisely religious by nature but he felt he had no one else to turn to.

He slowly walked to the altar and kneeled at it, commencing a long night of praying. But Philip saw it more like begging. He put all his energy into it and as the hours ticked by, his stiff body protested. However, the monarch bit through the pain, ignoring his aching limbs.

_May 20 th, 1461_

As dawn neared, the king was still at the altar, begging the heavens to save his boy. He saw the situation as unjust. How could God punish him when he had done nothing but help his people? He did not see the plan of the Lord in taking his boy from him.

He tried to ignore the coldness of the stone chapel. The sigh echoing through it reverberated through him and a shiver struck him, unlike anything he’d felt before. Philip felt watched at that moment. Perhaps it was the lack of sleep that started playing tricks on his mind. But the king sensed something looking over him.

It was one of the priests who found the otherwise proud king, kneeling admits lit wax candles, staring at the cross that floated before him. Daylight spilled into the enclosed space, disrupting the darkness that otherwise enveloped him. Philip ignored the footsteps that neared him. At this point, he was too afraid to hear any news regarding his son.

“Your Majesty?” the priest said in astonished disbelief as he neared the altar. The monarch was dressed in nothing but a long white nightgown and a purple velvet robe lined in gold thread. When the man would not react to his calls, the priest slowly reached out to gently shake his shoulder.

“What news of my son?”

The priest then smiled, alas the king could not see it. “The prince lives to see another day,” was all he said. The monarch turned to face him—his face exhausted from lack of sleep, but gratefulness shone in his eyes as he looked back at the cross. “It seems your prayers were heard.”

Philip got up, against his protesting limbs, and darted to his son’s bedroom. There he found Marianne, speaking to the physician. It seemed she had spent the whole night awake, outside of her Edmund’s chambers. Both parents had watched over their child, and it seemed to have paid off.

When she saw her husband, dressed in his nightclothes, her smile grew. “My love!” she exclaimed. When he neared them, the king only had to take one look at the physician to get a full report on his son’s status.

“It seems the fever has broken. I cannot yet say with certainty, but it appears His Royal Highness will survive this ordeal,” the old man said, a proud smile gracing his features. The grin became even wider when the king gave out a laugh, tears threatening to escape his eyes. The past two days had been hell, but it seemed the royal family would pull through. He opened the door to see his son. But the physician cautioned him.

“Sire, we are still not entirely sure that it is not the plague. Yesterday we took little precautions. But today we need to be wary. We suspect it is airborne,” he said, handing a piece of white cloth to the monarch and some gloves. “I suggest you use these and then throw them away into the fire, just in case.” Philip looked at the mask.

“Am I to appear like some sort of bandit before my son?” he exclaimed, suddenly furious.

“Dear,” his doting wife said, moving in to save the physician. “It is only a precaution. I had to wear the same thing when I walked inside. The maids attending Edmund are wearing them as well. He understands, he is old enough to do so.”

Philip’s mouth turned into a thin line as he accepted the cloth, tying it across his nose and mouth. It would prevent him breathing the contaminated air. And the gloves would protect his hands. Before he was to enter, Marianne could not help but laugh a little.

“Alas, you do look a bit like a ruffian,” she cooed, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek. Philip merely scoffed, his handsome face still not entirely hidden behind the cloth. The physician grew embarrassed as he witnessed the display of affection between the king and queen.

Some maids were washing his son while others were airing the room when he entered. A delicate vase of freshly picked flowers was placed on the table next to the bed.

Once the maids understood it was the king, they all quickly left, leaving the father alone with his son.

“I did not know bandits were now allowed into the castle,” Edmund’s weak voice said as he caught sight of his father. Philip chuckled as he sat down next to the young prince.

“I snuck in, Your Highness,” he played along, deepening his voice and accenting it.

“And why would a bandit wish to see a sickly prince?”

“I did not come here to see a sickly prince. I came to see the prince who defeated death,” Philip boomed. The ten-year-old stared back at him, astonished.

“Is that what the people are saying about me?” he asked as his eyes lit up with wonder. Philip merely nodded. Suddenly Edmund grew shy, looking at his father from under his eyelashes. “Is it true what the maids say? That you stayed up praying for me at the chapel the whole night?”

Edmund’s words caught his father off guard. “There are some things in life that no amount of power or money can get you,” he began explaining. “So then there is only one way we can all look to and ask for help.”

“It seems He listened,” Edmund smiled, but exhaustion was still evident on his face.

“Indeed,” Philip smiled under the cloth. He brushed the boy’s hair out of his face and tucked him in. “What you need to do now is to rest, so you can ride your stallion once more, my son.”

“I want to be like you one day, father,” Edmund began, sleepily.

“And you will, only if you rest now.”

As Edmund shut his eyes, Philip gave out a sigh of relief, never letting go of the small hand.

* * *

 

_March 2 nd, 1520_

The last of supper was taken away by some sailors. Juan patted his belly in a satisfied manner, relaxing back in the high chair, sipping on his cup of Rioja. The Spanish captain had invited the three Angloans to come dine with him. Journeys at sea were always dreary and awfully boring, and the man always found company—in any form—to be better than dining by himself, or with his steering mate.

“What takes you to Rome, señores?” the captain asked as he passed around the wine bottle so that they might serve themselves. His eyes drifted to the masked one, a man he found deliciously alluring. If there was something Juan Mejías loved it was a good mystery. The two blonde ones exchanged glances over their cups of wine.

“Business,” Lucius said in his baritone voice that boomed in the captain’s cabin. The curt response only provoked a laugh in Juan.

“If you are businessmen, then I am the king of Spain!” he exclaimed laughing, raising his glass at the mention of his king, drinking to his honor. “I am guessing you are on your way to Rome for some other type of business, say business of honor perhaps?” he continued. The words seemed to provoke some reaction in the two blondes, the masked man seemed as stoic as ever.

“Or perhaps it is a woman,” he said, trying to dig deeper. Now the masked man seemed to tense up. “Ah, it seems I am on the right track,” Juan mused, delighted at what he had discovered. “It  _is_ about a woman.”

“I would appreciate,  _Señor… Capitán_ , if you did not meddle in our affairs,” came the stern reply from Tristan as he leaned forward in his chair. Juan only arched one eyebrow before he put both hands up as a gesture of submission.

“I did not wish to offend you, señor,” Juan began.

“Then do not speak more of it,” Tristan said, cutting him short, hoping the conversation was over with.

“Ah yes,” Juan could not stop himself. “But I always feel that women bring nothing but trouble,” he started, pausing as if thoughtful. Both Lucius and Joseph grew nervous, sensing that Tristan was becoming tenser by the minute.

Juan unbuttoned the upper part of his shirt and exposed part of his collarbone. A deep scar ran a few inches wide, diagonally across his left collarbone.

“Her name was Lola,” he sighed--as if remembering the woman who had inflicted that scar on him. He then rolled up the sleeve of his white shirt. A silver scar ran across his lower arm, not as deep but quite a lot longer than the first one.

“This one I got from Valentina,” he lamented.

“It seems you choose the most passionate of them, or maybe that is just the way you do things here around the Mediterranean,” Joseph muttered--more to himself than to Juan. His words provoked a chuckle in the Spanish captain.

“Valentina did this to me when she found out about Lola, I thought she would chop my arm off!” he exclaimed. “Lola wielded my own blade against me when she found out about Rosario.”

“Rosario?” Joseph asked in blissful innocence.

“Hm yes, for then there was Ángela and Catalina. So many women, all of them have brought me many troubles over the years. Yet, I cannot seem to quit them,” he said, staring at Tristan.

“It seems you have suffered for your woman as well, yes?” Juan asked, pointing at the mask.

“She did not scare me if that is what you ask,” Tristan growled, his hands in fists.

“Of course, señor. But you must understand my curiosity. I do not get to see many men in masks unless they are bandits, and you do not strike me as a bandit.” Juan took another sip from his cup, enjoying himself in teasing the three Angloans. But he knew he must tread carefully with the masked one.

“Might it be that you have so many troubles with women because you cannot settle for one?” Lucius put in, trying to steer the conversation in another direction.

“Probably. But I find that once I have decided for one, another just pops into my life, whatever I do. It is a curse, really,” Juan said, flashing a charming smile. The ladies loved that smile more than they loved his sweet words and gentle caress. When he saw that he could not take the conversation any further, he decided to play along with Lucius and change the subject as well.

“I heard some disturbing news in the harbor at Málaga before we sailed,” his brows knitted together. “Something about a coup in Angloa against the royal palace and the king himself.”

“The facts are true,” Joseph stated. “But the traitors were dealt with accordingly,” he said. Juan eyed the trio a long while. 

“Of course. Then again, some other traitors might have made it on to the first ship they could get, a ship that so happened to sail into Málaga. Maybe they are sitting here, in front of me, sharing my wine, my food and my hospitality.” All lightheartedness was gone as Juan brought up what had been going through his mind for the last few days. He did not wish to house traitors on his ship. He was proud, like most Spaniards, and he would be damned if he had such dishonorable men in such proximity.

The tension in the room grew. His own steering mate, Rodrigo, could sense it as well, even if he did not speak a word of English. The masked man stared harshly at Juan through the slits of his mask.

“I assure you that we are not traitors,” Tristan said, containing the anger he felt at the offense. But he would not explain himself, pride ruled before common sense. Instead, it was Lucius—ever the voice of reason—that jumped in before things got out of hand.

“We defended the royal palace when it was besieged by the traitors, led by Lord Oscar Braun—who unfortunately escaped, taking my friend’s fiancée in the process,” he spat. Lucius didn’t like that he had to explain himself. Even so, it was preferable to spending the rest of the voyage locked below deck until the captain decided what to do with them. Juan’s expression did not change, he was not moved by the words.

After a long pause--where the tension was unbearable, the Spaniard finally spoke, “Men will tell the most impressive lies to get away from what’s coming to them.” Joseph grew pale, if the Spanish captain did not believe them they could well risk being thrown overboard.

“ _Juro por la Virgen que yo y mis hombres decimos la verdad. Os doy mi palabra de honor, por si eso os sirve de algo_ ,” Juan rose an eyebrow, for the words weighed heavy on him.

“What did he say?” Joseph whispered in Lucius’ ear as he inched closer. Lucius promptly hushed him, trying to read the expression on Juan’s face. After a while, his harsh demeanor withered away.

“If you are willing to swear on the Holy Mother, I must take your word for it—as well as your word of honor,” he said with a curt nod before the tension was completely gone. The rest of the evening seemed to pass by in a slow manner. The captain engaged Tristan in deep conversation, speaking in rapid Spanish while Joseph and Lucius got lost in trying to decipher the foreign language.

When the evening was coming to a close, for most of the wine had been drunk, Tristan, Lucius, and Joseph decided to leave for their quarters. On the way there, the masked man was bombarded by questions.

“What magic did you unleash upon that Spaniard that he would believe you with a mere phrase?” Joseph asked in awe. He only received a slight smirk from Tristan as they walked through the small corridor, their door at the end of it.

“He does believe in us, right? He knows we tell the truth and will not try to lock us up?” Lucius asked, still not entirely willing to trust that the matter could have been brushed away that easily.

“He assures me so, Lucius. But I would advise caution in either case. We arrive in Rome soon. We should try to get away from Captain Juan as fast as we dock, in case he reports us to the local authorities,” Tristan explained.

“You think he would do that?”

“He promised me we would be safe on this ship, but I think him a fickle man; he did not promise our safety off the ship.”

They entered their shared living space. Tristan had a bed in the corner with drapes, so that he could discard the mask when he slept—he trusted enough in his friends to do so now. When the door closed Joseph turned to him. “But what did you say to him, that first sentence in Spanish?”

“I am also curious, to be quite honest. From what Juan repeated it was something to do with swearing on someone?” Lucius said, curiosity shining in his eyes.

“I swore to him on the Holy Mother that we were telling the truth and after I gave him my word of honor—if he found that of any use. The Spanish are devout Catholics, he could not refuse,” Tristan said, sinking down on the bed, not bothering to undress. He propped his head on the pillow, sure more questions would follow.

“I suppose you had a right, for we did tell the truth,” Lucius continued, promptly cut short by Joseph.

“I had no idea you spoke Spanish so well!” the younger man exclaimed. “Where did you learn that?”

His question brought up the memory of Sofia once more. Tristan stared at the roof, remembering her gray hair, her black eyes and her sweet accent, running like honey. He missed her, now more than ever. He scolded himself; when they had been in each other’s company he had taken her for granted. But now… now he had no idea where she was and a part of him felt lost without her guidance.

“I spent most of my youth in the company of a Spanish gypsy; Sofia. I don’t think you ever met her. She was like a mother to me,” he said distantly. Both men turned quiet, Tristan rarely talked about his personal life nor his past.

“But she was not your mother?” Joseph asked, digging where he should not. Lucius sent him an irritated glance.

“No, my mother is… not here,” he sighed, occupied, no doubt, by memories of the woman who had given birth to him.

The other two did not push more on the subject and decided to leave it at that. They put out the candles and Tristan, feeling safe and protected by the dark, shed his mask. His thoughts wandered to another woman in his life; a woman with tresses of gold and lavender blue eyes. He knew he would see her again, hold her again, kiss her again. They could not arrive in Rome soon enough. He would seek up Cardinal Thorpe and take whatever means necessary against the man, anything so that he might find  _her_.

_March 5 th, 1520_

She was above deck for the first time.

Christine had never sailed on the Mediterranean. She had always thought it the same as the Western Sea that stretched between Angloa and the continent.

But she had been wrong.

When she had traveled from Wessport, Christine and her mother had taken a ship down to Coldwick. The sea had been stormy, a black depth under gray skies that threatened to swallow the ship whole. She had kept away from it, trying to ignore the waves that rocked the ship violently, threatening to tip it.

But now, leaving Spain behind them, closing in on the east, she saw another world. The smell of salt and fresh seawater wafted through the air as frisky waves danced around the ship. The wind kissed her face gently, while the sun touched her pale skin, turning it a shade darker. She saw the men run around main deck, working fervently to manage the vast white sails, looking like strange clouds contrasted against the blue heaven. To her left, far in the distance, Christine spotted a very thin strip of land.

“That is North Africa,” came a slow drawl behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up in the presence of Braun as he neared, standing just behind her. She fought against the revolting reaction he provoked in her.

“I have never been there,” she said in a stiff voice.

“It is indeed an impressive land, so very different to our own,” he continued, awe lacing his voice. “Their customs, their way of life—there is a finesse in their culture, a grace that we have ignored for centuries in our land. And to the east, their accomplishments only grow. We are mere specks of dust compared to them. We have been wasting away in an age of ignorance and lack of culture,” he sneered.

Christine was surprised at the words. She turned to face him. “You speak of Angloa?”

Her questioning glance and innocent expression brought a sly smile on Braun’s face. “I speak of Europe in general, my dear,” he responded. But the words made her frown.

“I do not think we are an ignorant people, nor that we lack grace of culture,” she argued, offended at the way he so easily dismissed his own people.

“Do not speak of what you do not know, Miss Vega,” Braun snapped, his eyes growing darker, a snarl spreading on his wicked mouth. Christine took a step back at the sudden change in him. Her eyes turned dark and her lips formed a thin line as their polite exchange had turned sour. Not that she had ever wished for polite conversation with him. Christine loathed Braun with all her heart. Braun recollected himself. He did, however, not apologize for his sudden outburst.

She tried to ignore him, feeling trapped suddenly, on that vast deck. The men kept sending glances her way; most knowing better than to try anything with her. The barber who had taken out the splinters drifted his gaze nervously from her to Braun and back. He did not like how the lord looked at the young woman.

“We shall arrive in a fortnight if the winds are in our favor,” Braun said casually.

“And where might that be?” She had tried to discern where Braun might be taking her, but the only clue she had was Cardinal Thorpe.

“It matters little,” Braun smiled. He stared as strands of her hair blew across her face, her lips parted as she awaited the rest of his answer. But it never came.

“It matters to me. I heard you speak of Cardinal Thorpe—“

“Cardinal Thorpe,” Braun chuckled as if remembering something before turning serious. “Once we arrive there, you will know where we are. “Commodities will have been prepared for you,” he started, hoping to continue their conversation. But all he got was a glare as she pushed past him finally, making her way down to her quarters, praying he was not following her suit.

Christine arrived at her chamber, swiftly locking the door behind her, resting a brief moment against the worn wood. When she heard no footsteps, she went to the bed and searched under the mattress until she found the dagger Zoráida had gifted her. Holding it in her hands gave her comfort when nothing else would; it was safety—a weapon to defend her. Tristan was gone, hard as it was to accept it was a fact. Every night when she shut her eyes she was reminded of that. It hurt, but what had once been a sharp pain in her heart was now dull, aching. She reasoned to herself that she would always keep the memory of her fiancé alive. When she returned to Angloa—for she would indeed return—Christine would make sure that he was honored accordingly.

But she had to get to Angloa. As soon as they docked in whatever harbor Braun was taking her, she would run. The day he had stormed into the townhouse, she had heard whispers of Cardinal Thorpe. Christine never knew they were both allied, or perhaps they were not; perhaps Braun would run to wherever Thorpe was and push him for finances—it seemed like something Braun would do. Her mind had pondered this question for days. She had no recollection of where the Cardinal could be. But she suspected that there was only one place for him to visit if he had left Angloa: the Vatican.

Christine had managed to whisk a few coins from Braun’s coat, which he would sometimes forget whenever he visited her. It would be enough to buy her safe passage across the Mediterranean back to Spain. She knew she would be safer on the Iberian Peninsula; where her father’s relatives lived. They would no doubt help her the rest of the way back to Angloa; her motherland.

She found herself once more glancing out of the large windows, staring at an empty horizon where the sea met the sky. It was west—where the sun would set every afternoon, always shining in through the windows, bathing her chamber in a myriad of colors.

_March 6 th, 1520_

The clash of swords sounded on deck as the blades crossed once more. Tristan easily parried an attack from Juan as he sent him back. He was playing with the Spaniard, enjoying the control he held over their swordfight.

Lucius and Joseph watched intently, following every move of their friend.

“How does he move so swiftly?” Lucius asked himself.

“Indeed, I would stumble and fall myself attempting the moves he does,” Joseph joined in. “But he fights well today, against this Spaniard. I guess it is because he fights with a dress sword. When he fought Braun, he fought with an unfamiliar weapon; that is probably why he was defeated.” They could still detect that he had pain in his shoulder. But Tristan tried to bite through it, only focused on the fight. Tristan needed a distraction, he needed to improve his skills for the eventual rematch with Braun.

Lucius turned his head sharply and stared at Joseph in disbelief. “Braun defeated Hawthorne?”

“Aye, why do you think he was so badly wounded? It was Braun who cut through him. I thought it was because he was tired from fighting Lord Alistair, but I wonder,” Joseph continued.

“I have sparred with him myself. He lets me win every time because his mind wanders too much,” Lucius said, a slight offense creeping into his tone. It provoked a small chuckle in Joseph.

“Maybe that is what happened with Braun; the bastard probably used his words as much as his sword.” Joseph looked pensive, trying to unravel the mystery of Tristan’s defeat.

“Or perhaps Braun is his superior in swordsmanship,” Lucius said, although the mere thought did not sit well with him. He found more reasons against such a thought when Tristan once more managed to coax the rapier from Juan’s hand. The Spaniard laughed it off, but it was clear that he had had enough of such an exercise.

“Braun will not fight as dirty as Alistair. However, I am sure he had something up his sleeve when he fought Tristan,” Joseph murmured as their masked friend shook hands with the captain.

“What do you mean?” Lucius asked, lowering his voice so that the others wouldn’t hear.

“I cannot help but speculate. One of my father’s friends—Lord Robert Giraine’s cousin had apparently offended Lord Braun. This was almost a decade back, but Lord Robert loves to bring up this story every so often. I always thought him exaggerating; maybe I was wrong,” Joseph said in a steady voice as the memories resurfaced.

“His cousin—whose name escapes me—was an excellent swordsman, well enough to be Braun’s match. He chose combat by sword, of course. Lord Robert was the second, so he witnessed the whole ordeal. They fought for a long while. Lord Braun managed to slice the cousin first, drawing blood. But Lord Robert’s cousin would not stop until he had sliced Lord Braun as well. It appears that he started getting more sluggish and tired at the end of their fight; it had gone on for a long time though, so it was natural. In the end, they stopped as—ah yes,  _Fausto_!—that was his name! Fausto was said to have been very tired indeed. The wound he received on his arm got infected and he died from it a week or so later. Everyone else brushed it away as a tragic occurrence, everyone but Lord Robert, who suspected Braun was behind it. Perhaps he was only exaggerating in the end, though,” Joseph finished.

“Perhaps we idealize our friend too much to the point where Tristan being defeated in combat becomes unthinkable. Maybe it was just that Braun was the better man,” Lucius said in an emotional voice.

“Lord Braun was never questioned, for how could he have been capable of infecting such a wound, unless it was by witchcraft?” Joseph reasoned.

“Maybe Fausto was poisoned,” Lucius said jokingly. “It would indeed be a strange poison to use, but practical would it not? Imagine a poison that would show up as a normal infection in a wound that you inflicted with your coated weapon. No suspicion would fall on you since death from infection and inflammation is a natural occurrence,” Lucius speculated, playing with the idea. But it was never more than mindless speculation. Joseph, however, was keener on accepting such an idea.

“And why would Braun not have done such a thing? A man like him, without honor, could indeed use poison for his own benefit. He had everything to lose the day he stormed the palace.” But when he saw the look on Lucius’ face, Joseph realized his own folly. “Or maybe we are indeed over-analyzing this. Maybe Tristan was just tired and Braun the better man?” Joseph questioned. Lucius gave away a deep sigh.

“My wish is that we were onto something, but perhaps it is simpler than we imagined it.” He patted Joseph on the shoulder. “Let us not dwell on such things now, Joseph. The time will come later, of that I am sure,” he said. A tone of premonition laced his voice as worry seeped into his face, manifesting in the deepened wrinkles on the otherwise handsome visage.

“Perhaps,” Joseph joined in, choosing to ignore what they had been speaking of.

“We dock in a few days,” came a sudden voice behind them. The hairs on the back of their necks prickled up as Lucius and Joseph quickly exchanged glances. Tristan’s dark voice boomed behind them and they wondered how he had managed to sneak up behind them on a ship that was all creaking floorboards.

“That is good, I cannot wait to get off this blasted thing,” Lucius said, turning around.

“Yes,” Joseph joined in, giving away a stale laugh, still caught off guard.

They both felt the penetrating eyes of their friend on them, those blue depths seemed to tear into them as the gentle Mediterranean breeze swished past.

“We should start preparing for Rome. I do not trust too much in Captain Mejías,” the masked one continued. His words provoked frowns in his friends as they did not understand what he was talking about.

“You still suspect he will have us arrested as soon as we dock by Rome?”

“We will not even have made it out of the harbor before we are thrown into prison,” Tristan confirmed.

“How can you be sure?” asked Joseph. He received yet another stare from the masked man.

“Because it is what I would do if I suspected someone until I could find the proof they spoke of,” he said coldly. The words made sense to them both.

“Oh,” said Joseph, seeing how his friend was always one step ahead.

“Oh indeed. You see, Joseph, I have time to give these things thought, instead of pondering about battles and duels already fought,” he said, the hint of a smile touching his lips. “Or making up biased speculations about swords and poison,” he added. The words turned both Joseph ad Lucius white as they realized that Tristan had heard their whole exchange


	5. Chapter 5

_May 29th, 1461 – Cadherra_

Philip heard the bells of the chapel ring through the whole meadow as the procession started. Their hollow sound stretched over the grasslands, creeping up the Durun Mountains and traveling into the heart of Raven's Grove.

Cadherra was in mourning.

Angloa was in mourning.

A knot that had formed in his heart would not loosen up. The middle-aged king felt the sorrow drown him. His young wife—the Queen—would not remove the black veil, so that the others could not see the tears that streamed down her face.

He watched from the window as the long train of men dressed in black carried the coffin that held his son, the heir to the throne. Edmund was dead—had died from the plague that had conquered the island. Death itself had raided through all of the villages of the country, finally sweeping Cadherra, taking the young prince with it.

He squared his jaw while watching from the tower in Adelton Hall, cursing that he himself could not attend the public funeral. A king must never be seen at a funeral-unless it is his own.

Magnus was at the head of the train, he himself had lost his own two-year-old daughter to the sickness a few days earlier. He had taken her body and buried her in the crypt of Adelton. The prince had been unable to express his grief. He was left with a void inside of him that would never again be filled.

Philip was brought back to reality by the soft cries of Marianne. He embraced his wife and fell into the spiraling sorrow with her.

When the funeral was over and night fell, they finally made their way down to the chapel to gaze upon the body. The place was empty and cold as if winter was upon them. Or perhaps it was just he that felt the chill of death having passed by.

He saw the handsome face of his young son—it would never mature beyond ten now. The sleeping visage rested, looking white as a ghost. His lips had turned purple and his body was so still. Marianne let her tears fall as she went over to the body.

"My son, my dear, sweet boy," she cried, embracing the corpse of the young prince as her tears streamed from her tired eyes. Philip had tried to hold in his own tears, but he finally felt them emerge, flowing freely as the loss of his child hit him.

He had not been able to contain his anger at the injustice of the situation. How could his son have survived only to fall ill again and then be taken from them? How could God play such a cruel trick on both parents?

The king could not entirely process the loss. He only felt pain and sorrow then, not understanding how his child could be dead.

That same night, in the confinements of his chamber, Philip started thinking about the future. He realized that he had no one to inherit the throne. No prince was there to take his place when he died—except for Magnus.

Alas, the more he pondered such worrying thoughts, the more he spiraled down into his own sorrow. When the pain overwhelmed him he toured the structure once more and took in its grandeur. The castle was nothing like Angloa had ever seen before. It emerged from the ground like a mighty tree on a small hill. The stones stacked on top of each other and reached for the blue skies.

He stared out over the open emerald field, the tall grass swaying gently in the wind. In the distance, the mountains stood—Raven's Grove gently enveloping them at their feet. Delicate clouds puffed from the chimneys in Hayes.

Philip then realized that he could not bear the sight of Cadherra. Every corner reminded him of Edmund to the point where it drowned him in a sea of hurt.

He had to get away.

_June 1st, 1462 – Cadherra_

It had been more than a year since Philip and Magnus had lost their children to the plague. After having taken the prince and princess, it had quickly died down and the country recovered from its aftereffects. Many families had suffered from it. Many had to fight to survive after husbands, fathers, wives or mothers had passed. Some children had no living parents to tend them, and they were left to fend for themselves.

Alas, the crown had been generous, helping as much as it could. It had made the survivors prosper, and the country was at its strongest point yet.

Philip was out riding with his brother. His usual charming and smiling self never quite seemed to return. The monarch seemed mellower, less inclined to brash action. The wound that his son's death had provoked had not yet healed. And he only knew of one way to remedy that.

"I wish to move court," Philip confided in his brother as their stallions silently grazed the pastures deep within Raven's Grove.

"What?" Magnus could not believe what he was hearing. Adam Flannigan had tried to make the king move court for years, and now Philip seemed determined by his own merit to do so.

"Wherever I look I can only see traces of Edmund. He breathed life into this paradise. And now he is gone. Every time I am in this forest my healing wounds are reopened and it hurts."

"But you cannot, brother! If you move court many of us will lose from it. Not only will we lose power and money, but also—"

"Is that all you think of, Magnus? Of power and money? Has your wife poisoned your mind so much that you no longer have any compassion? What of your own child! The one you lost after she had barely breathed or felt the warmth of the sun on her skin," Philip growled, stopping his black horse. Magnus quickly ceased talking, cursing his brash mouth.

"You are weaker than I gave you credit for, brother. I never thought you would cling to power in such a way," Philip snapped. "I cannot believe we are related!"

"Forgive me, Your Majesty. I only meant to say that moving court may be unwise."

"Listen to me," Philip sighed. "There are more reasons to move court. It is not just due to my own pain. We are cut off from the rest of the world here. At least it feels that way sometimes. We turn a deaf ear to the beauty in front of us and never look away. I want to be in a place where I can devote all my time and power to make a change. I want Angloa to prosper," he explained. "I do not wish to be remembered as yet another king who kept himself and court in this castle, turning a deaf ear to the problems this country faced, a deaf ear to his people in their hour of need," Philip continued. Magnus could not help but frown as it was clear that his older brother spoke of their father.

"We might have been more successful in combating the plague if we had been more strategically placed. We did not hear news of it until it reached Sorossa, and by then it had spread to half of the country."

"Where do you plan to move then?" Magnus felt reluctant as he asked that question. His wife would not like the news. They would lose the presence and hold they now had at court. He had turned to power and money after the loss of his daughter—Magnus had tried to fill the emptiness within his heart.

"Wessport."

"That old fishing village up north?"

"It will be much more than a fishing village once I am done with it," Philip said, urging his horse into a canter. He was done discussing such things with his brother. It was obvious the latter did not favor his plans.

* * *

 

_March 11th, 1520 – Civitavecchia, Italy_

They saw the coast nearing, and a port clinging to the waterline where many ships docked. Fortresses shielded the harbor, probably put there to protect it from Saracen invaders from the east or south. Lucius and Joseph were reminded of Málaga, in some sense—with the vast stone structures and busy people crowding the open street that faced the Tyrrhenian Sea.

"So this is Rome," they said in unison. For some reason, both men had expected something grander—vast structures or ruins, telling of a forgotten past. A whisper fleeting through time as the olden days reminded them of what had once been. Instead, they looked at the seaport and found it, in some sense, lacking.

"This is not Rome, not precisely," Tristan said, a hint of worry laced his voice. "This is Civitavecchia, a port town northwest of Rome."

"And what are we doing here then?" asked Joseph. He did not get an answer, but instead saw the masked man tense up. Tristan's shoulder had healed considerably after Zoráida's care. The dark doublet he wore no longer looked as bulky over his left shoulder since he wore thinner strips of bandages now. The one shirt he owned still had the faded red stains from his wound, where the blood had escaped the bandages. His gloved hands were clenched into fists, one gripping the hilt of his sword, a habit he had whenever he grew tense. Lucius and Joseph had grown accustomed to reading his body language, since they could never perceive his state of being from reading his face.

"I am afraid that if we do not do something fast, we will have to figure that out in a cell or a dungeon somewhere," he said, glancing back at Juan through the slits in his mask. The captain had avoided them the whole morning as they got closer to the Italian port. He was practically telling the trio that he planned to have them apprehended as soon as they docked.

"Tonight there will be no moon. We can steal a small boat ourselves and make for the coast, away from the city. If we keep to the coastline we will drift with the current and arrive close to the old Roman port, Ostia," Tristan said. His friends did not have to think twice, they liked the plan.

"But how can you be sure that he will not have people guarding the deck?" Joseph had seen several sailors stand guard whenever he had escaped up to deck for a fresh breath of air while the others slept.

"We will knock them out and before the alarm is sounded we will be away," Lucius said. Tristan nodded in agreement and so the three started formulating the details of their escape.

When night came, not a soul seemed to stir on the ship. The trio, having packed what little belongings they had, quietly moved their way from below deck. Tristan, who sported the darkest clothes—practically like another shadow on that moonless night, prowled the deck. He found two guards and swiftly took each one out with a small blow to the head. Once they were down he sprinkled wine on them. If anyone found the sailors, they would think them passed out drunk. It would not raise suspicion until they were far away. When a third man had been taken out, Joseph and Lucius started preparing the small rowboat while Tristan kept watch.

While they were sneaking around in the darkness, all three could feel their heartbeats speed up at the thought of getting found out. Tristan had been in similar situations before and felt more at ease when his hand drifted to his sword. Joseph had managed to prepare a small provisional bag of food and water, in case their journey south took longer than expected.

All seemed to be going well until Tristan caught sight of a moving shadow in one corner of the deck. One glimmer of steel reflecting in the light of the coastal town was all he needed to draw his own weapon. Lucius and Joseph were caught off guard as they heard the clash of blades.

"Lower the boat!" Lucius hissed in Joseph's direction as he turned to help Tristan.

"But what about Tristan?" Joseph asked. When no answer was given he decided to chance it. He jumped into the small boat, barely capable of fitting the three of them. He saw four or five figures engaged in battle, black shadows barely outlined against the contrasting sky. He had no idea who had the upper hand, but, soon, recognition shone in his eyes as he discerned one fighter with a peculiar fighting style he had seen once before. It was Tristan, taking down two other men easily with one hand. It was all Joseph needed to let go of the rope that held him and the boat floating mid-air. A rush flew through his stomach as he fell several feet before hitting the black sea with a big splash.

As soon as he touched water, a figure threw itself clumsily over the edge, diving into the murky depths. When a blonde head popped up, Joseph let out the breath he had been holding, knowing it was Lucius.

"Where is Tristan?" he asked worriedly, glancing up at the ship. The splash of their boat had most assuredly awoken the rest of the crew by now. He could hear the shouts as people rushed to investigate what the commotion was all about.

"He told us to start rowing, to get the boat away from the ship," Lucius said as he crawled up into the boat, soaked to the bone. The adrenaline rush from having jumped protected him still from the night chill. But Lucius could feel his limbs going cold with each second. They had to get as far as they could. He trusted in Tristan's abilities to catch up with them.

They heard some more clashes of steel and shouts of pain. Suddenly, a black silhouette was outlined against the rest of the ship. It sprang toward the edge and dove gracefully into the water. They kept rowing away from the scene, hoping Tristan would find them. Seconds seemed to turn into agonizing hours as no head popped up. But, then, it emerged; a black head broke the surface and two glistening eyes found their boat. With long, sure strokes, Tristan reached them and hauled himself over the hull of the rowboat.

Without a word, he turned around in his seat as Lucius and Joseph rowed. A satisfied smile spread across his lips as the crewmembers were still blindly fighting each other, confused by the whole situation.

Their escape was swift, and before Juan Mejías or anyone else on his ship discovered what had really happened, the trio was already far away.

_March 18th, 1520_

Christine stared at her food and could not muster enough will to eat. Not when Braun was sitting right next to her.

She could feel him brush up against her. If it was by accident or not, she would never know. But such nearness made her nauseous. Her fiancé's killer was sitting next to her. Christine gripped the knife tightly in her hand, fighting the urge to sink it into his flesh and puncture his heart.

They had arrived at their destination, wherever that might be. But Braun had not allowed them to dock yet, nor had he allowed her to walk on deck.

Even if Christine could not see the town they were next to, she could hear it sometimes. When the song of the seagulls died down, she heard the chatter of people, the shouts of sailors as they prepared for docking. It soon became a background noise, making her aware that she was not alone in the world. The young woman sensed it as well—it was warmer here, the breeze against the ship gentle and did not provoke chills in her as it would in Angloa.

That afternoon, a man dressed in strange clothes had boarded their ship. Braun had been all smiles and politeness toward him as he showed him down to the dining area. He had made Christine dress in the finest dress he could find for her; a maroon gown that was at least a few decades old. The arms tapered out like an upside down triangle and it hugged her upper midsection too much, making her bosom more prominent. Christine gritted her teeth as both men spoke in a strange language while looking at her.

The strange man wore a graying beard and dark eyes. His skin was a shade darker than hers and Braun's. He wore loose cashmere pants in blue and faded yellow. They were high and tied up with a broad sash of off-white. His shirt bore a damask dark magnolia and a white pattern. His shoes were a dark red with a pointed toe, curled up. Over this ensemble, the man wore a tunic, open at the front, reaching his ankles. The luscious green silk pooled around him like waves of water as he sat on the chair. What really ignited Christine's attention, however, was the peculiar headgear he wore on top and around his head. It appeared to be some type of white fabric—perhaps muslin—placed around his head like a great big turban. The man felt her eyes on his and a small chuckle escaped him.

"It seems this young girl is a curious one," he stated in English. Christine was caught off guard as he spoke in her language. Braun laughed with him as well.

"That she is, Chaush-bashi," Braun said in a respectful tone. The man seemed to appreciate the title Braun bestowed upon him. Christine could only stare at them confused. But she was not offered any explanation as to what was going on. Braun sneaked a glance toward the young woman once more before he continued speaking.

"I take it you are pleased then?" he asked. The man merely nodded, a sly smile spreading on his lips.

"I will send an envoy tonight to give you details on your accommodation. At the end of this week all should be in order," he stated. Christine could not fight the feeling that they were somehow speaking of her.

"Has this anything to do with me?" she asked. Her voice never wavered, it sounded strong and determined. She managed to mask the uncertainty and growing fear she felt in the pit of her stomach. Braun took her arm in his hand and squeezed hard before leaning into her hear.

"Silence! You will only speak when spoken to from now on," he whispered. She clenched her jaw and sent him a murderous look. The strange man said something in his language and laughed. Braun swiftly laughed with him.

When dinner was over, she stared once more at her metal plate, her food untouched. The man left soon, after having drunk too many glasses of wine. He got out of the dining room of the ship with some help and Braun stared after him, a satisfied grin spreading on his face.

"Who was he?" Christine asked flatly. She received another stare from Braun.

"What did I tell you about speaking—," he started, only to be cut off by her.

"That I shall not speak unless spoken to. But that has never applied to you, Lord Braun. I am neither your servant nor your slave," she said in harsh tones. Her response managed to silence the proud man before her, who would not dare talk against her or move a hand against her. Not yet.

"Who was he?" she asked again, more forcefully this time.

"A friend from long ago," Braun said, reminiscing in the past.

"That does not answer my question," she remarked dryly. Braun stared at her and took in the sight of her. Christine stared back, defiantly, not willing to squirm under his gaze—disgusting as it was. She had found new strength and determination in the knife gifted to her by Zoráida. Christine had grown more courageous as of late—more daring in her address. It was something Braun did not approve of.

"You will know in due time," Braun said enigmatically. And with that he went over to her, offering his arm to her as she stood up from the chair. Christine ignored it and instead took a handkerchief and wrapping a piece of meat in it.

"You escort will not be necessary, Lord Braun. I can walk to my chambers myself," she muttered. He watched half in amusement, half insulted as she took the piece of food, obviously intending to dine in her own quarters once more.

"Then do not blame me if you're assaulted in the corridors," he spat as she left. Christine turned around in the opened door. The look she sent him was of condensation and hatred.

"I would be safer in the company of wolves," she spat back, slamming the door hard behind her, rushing to her chamber. All the way there she gripped Zoraida's knife, safely tucked under her dress, tied to her thigh.

"Be careful what you wish for," Braun whispered after her.

_March 12th, 1520 – Coast of Italy_

Lucius and Joseph had been rowing south for a long while, staring at the coast while Tristan kept a lookout at their backs. They did not know if they had been followed.

As dawn had arrived, bringing with it ominous clouds, the three men did not foresee a bright future. Soon, big drops started falling from the skies as the clouds opened up, letting the rain fall upon them in a heavy downpour. They were all cold, tired and soaked to the bone. But they kept going forward, knowing that soon they would find Braun—and thus—Christine. It was the only thing that kept Tristan focused. He harbored no other thoughts than the memory of her.

He had found, during this trip, that the longer he was apart from her, the more he understood how important she was for him. At first, he had thought their relationship was only that of mutual understanding. He thought that the fire he had for her was only carnal lust; which he thought confirmed when they had kissed. But Tristan was sure that if he went to lay with another woman, he would not feel complete. It had to be Christine, always Christine. He realized—with a growing fear and anticipation—that the more time he spent away from her, the more his care grew for her. But Tristan had started to see, just as those around him, that the care he held for her, was something more; much more. He had never had such feelings before, and it scared him.

"When to you reckon we will reach this ancient harbor?" shouted Lucius through the rain. The sea was calm—to their relief—and the waves were moderate. Had the waves been any higher the boat would have long since tipped over.

"I think we should be there by evening," Tristan shouted back. The current had grown faster and the winds had picked up speed—all in their favor. He looked over at Joseph, who looked about ready to fall asleep.

"Why don't you let me take a turn, Joseph?" Tristan asked-concern laced his voice.

"No, you should not overexert your shoulder," said he. Tristan's shoulder did ache after the continuous practicing and last night's swordfight. But he'd rather take the pain in his shoulder than see Joseph fighting sleep.

"Move over. I want you alert once we arrive. You will be no good fighting if you can barely keep your head up," he said in a commanding voice. Joseph wanted to argue, but the look in Tristan's eyes and the tone of his voice made him immediately get out of his seat and switch with the masked one.

Once Tristan started working the oar, Lucius looked at him with a sly smile on his lips. "What about me?"

Tristan sent him a glare. It was obvious Lucius was not as tired as Joseph, that he could endure more for he was used to such hardships since the war. Joseph had fought with them as well, but he did not know the harsh life of a soldier like they did. He was the son of a great lord, while Tristan had—at first—been a lowly soldier raised from the ranks. Lucius was the son of a lowly baron and had risen fast in the ranks as well.

"Silence, Lucius," he snickered. The other could not hide the chuckle that escaped him. And so they continued rowing, setting into a practiced rhythm. Soon, Lucius started humming a song the soldiers used to sing when they marched. Joseph knew it as well and he promptly joined in. Before long, they sang as loud as their tired voices would allow them, almost as if shouting at the rain—defying the elements with their positive attitude. Tristan did not join in, instead, he focused on rowing, trying to use it as meditation to ignore everything else. After a while, Joseph's voice died down, just as the rain did. He promptly fell asleep, under a coarse blanket that Tristan had placed on him.

When the afternoon fell, the temperature rose. The sky cleared and they could once more see the coastline without difficulty. In the distance, Tristan saw tall structures—ruins—rise from the ground. He recognized them, for he had seen them before.

"There!" he pointed. Joseph stirred from his sleep and Lucius turned around in his seat, looking into the distance. He saw some crumbling marble pillars in bad condition. There were remnants of what had once been a harbor. Its use had ceased around six to seven centuries earlier, due to the constant attack from Saracens arriving from both the east and the south.

As they got closer, the three men observed their surroundings, taking in the silence of the abandoned harbor. A river split through it, leading them all the way up to Rome. Crumbling pillars and other structures stood, now only a whisper of what they had been. Lucius could picture how the place had once looked and he concluded that it must have been an impressive sight to see.

"We will row up the river and stop shortly outside of the city gates. We will not walk in through the main gates; they will most likely stop us there. When night falls we sneak under the wall into the center. I am certain Cardinal Thorpe resides somewhere in the city. No doubt in a lavish residence or a palace," Tristan said, laying out the next step of their plan.

The trio soon traversed the rest of the old harbor, leaving it behind and continued up the Tiber River. They had left Angloa almost two weeks ago, their country had only seen masses and masses of white snow. The Mediterranean coast was entirely different; almost as if they had traveled forth in time several months. Here the air was warm and pleasant. As Tristan and now Joseph kept rowing, they had to stop at one time to shed their doublets, as they felt too warm in them.

"It feels as if we were at the end of April here," Joseph murmured to himself in wonder.

"It looks like it too," Lucius concurred in astonishment. The grass growing next to the river was a clear emerald shade. It looked soft and inviting as it swayed in the gentle breeze. Some flowers had started sprouting as well, painting the green carpet with reds, whites, and shades of purple and yellow. The trees sported small leaves, dotting the crowns in bright greens as the leaves felt the warmth of the sun for the first time. The bushes had started blooming as well. It was a rare sight to behold for the Angloans, who had never seen the spring arrive before April.

They traveled up the river for a few hours, fighting the natural current until they saw the grand city in the distance. The sun was still high in the sky, even if it was afternoon.

"We wait here," Tristan said, steering the boat off to the side. The three of them jumped out. Lucius wasted no time and lay down in the soft grass, feeling the tiny strands brush against his warm back; heated by the constant rays of the sun. Tristan tied the boat to a bush growing just by the water while Joseph placed the blanket and provisions to the side. He lay down as well, deciding to take another nap. The sweat that had soaked through his body slowly dried as the sun warmed him.

Tristan plopped down next to them, exhausted as well. He searched through their provisions and took a big gulp of water as well as a piece of stale bread.

"Eat some, for I do not know when we will get the chance to do so again," he said, looking at his friends. But both Lucius and Joseph had dozed off, caressed by the spring breeze and the sunbeams. The corner of his mouth twitched in a small smile as he kept eating his bread. Tristan wrapped his cape around him, raising the hood to hide his mask. They were close to the road and he had no wish to scare the life out of some poor soul who happened to see him as they watered their horses or decided to take a nap in the grass as well.

He watched the straws next to the waterfront sway with the wind. Their movement was hypnotic and he drifted away from the world, consumed by the nature that surrounded him.

Tristan looked around, making sure that no one was close. Joseph and Lucius were fast asleep, not the sound of a thousand galloping horses would wake them. So he lowered his hood and started unlacing the back of his full-head mask. When the last of the laces were loosened, he took a deep breath and removed it.

For a moment he had forgotten how nice it felt to have the sunshine on his sweaty brow, or have the cool wind kiss his face. It was something he had not felt in a long time. He realized how he had taken it for granted before. Such a simple thing seemed heightened to him now, and it brought a sense of ecstasy to him. Tristan lay down, clutching the mask in his hand, feeling the grass touch the back of his head, the small straws caressing the side of his face as he turned to the side. When it tickled him, he shut his eyes, reveling in the sensation. It had been long since he had felt like this—too long. He breathed in the scent of earth, made fresh by recently fallen rain. The grass still bore some dew from the previous rain and it soaked his face, washing away the tension and fatigue. He took off one glove and then the next, letting his bare hands glide through the dewy meadow. His eyes were still closed and the only thing he could think of was Christine. The way nature was around him reminded him of her. The gentle chirp of a bird, the soft beams on his back, the fresh wind in his face—it all felt like her; her voice in his ear, her gaze on him, her touch, her scent…

His eyes wandered off to the mask once more, to his prison. He wished to cast it away one day. But one part of him was now afraid; would Christine accept the man he was under the mask? Would she accept his face? Would she look past it and still see him? He wondered what her reaction would be; perhaps anger, or repulsion. Perhaps she would react as so many had before her; with absolute fear at what she saw. It was a direction he did not wish his thoughts to wander. Tristan knew that he would have to unmask before her one day—especially if they were to share their lives together. But he did not look forward to that day.

As the sun started lowering on the sky, Lucius commenced stirring when the temperature dropped. Tristan put the mask back on before his friends saw him without it. He did not think they would like what they saw either. When he was putting on his second glove, Lucius sat up, stretching his well-rested body. He caught Tristan placing on his glove, but asked no questions. Instead, he looked at the sun, almost under the horizon.

"It is almost time," he stated.

"Wake Joseph," Tristan said, getting up to investigate the road leading to the city. It was better if it was empty. If not, they'd have to travel next to it, unseen.

When he returned he found a groggy Joseph, replacing his doublet, running his hands through his hair.

"We should keep off the road for now," he said, removing the hood of his cape.

"Do you know where we can get into the city?" asked Lucius. "Would it not be very guarded, considering it houses the Vatican as well?"

"There is a section of the wall where you can sneak under it. The guards don't know about it, yet. If we remain unseen no suspicion of our presence will arise," he said. "We leave the rest of the supplies here. Whatever we cannot carry on our backs will only slow us down. If we have to confront Braun and his men it will not help us anyway."

Joseph split the remaining bread with Lucius and they both downed whatever water was left. After, they hid the blanket and sac of supplies by the bush that held the boat. They tied the other end to another bush so that it would be hidden under the foliage. When the three were satisfied with having hidden the boat, they commenced walking toward the city.

Once the sun was gone, darkness fell fast. Tristan could still see Joseph and Lucius in the dark since their faces were so light. But they had difficulty spotting him with his black attire and black mask. Only the occasional flash of his white shirt under his doublet or the enigmatic eyes told them where he was. Sometimes, they mistook him for yet another shadow in the dark landscape.

In the distance they saw Rome; a mighty city during centuries. The lights of torches around the walls made it stand out against the enveloping night. They spotted the main entrance, where guards would stop anyone that entered and ask them questions. Tristan had no doubt that their peculiar trio would have been stopped and perhaps even taken to the side, for further questioning. He was certain he would have been unmasked if that had been the case.

They trailed along the outer wall, ducking and hiding whenever a guard at the top passed with torches held high. They would press themselves against the stone, holding their breaths in hope that they would not be spotted.

After what seemed like hours, they finally arrived to the section of the wall that Tristan had been speaking of. It clung to the river and they had to wade through it. They swam with great effort against the current, always close to the great stone blocks just by the river. Tristan stopped once he recognized a marking in the stone.

"It is here," he said, turning to Lucius and Joseph.

"But there is only solid rock here," hissed Joseph, fighting to hold himself up, for he could not swim.

"We have to dive," Tristan deadpanned.

"What?!" Joseph could not believe what he was hearing. "I cannot swim and now you want me to dive? Have you gone completely mad?" he spat through the water, taking care in keeping his voice to a whisper. Tristan only sighed.

"I will go first. I have a rope that I will tie around myself. Once I reach the other end you may go after, following the rope, Joseph. Lucius, you will go last, making sure that no one sees us. Is all clear?" he said as he tugged at the rope he'd tied around his waist. He handed one end to Joseph and never waited for a reply before diving, his black form soon disappearing in the murky waters.

Joseph turned to Lucius. "He is mad! Foolish and mad!" he exclaimed, a trace of panic in his voice as he realized that it was his turn next.

"It took you long enough to figure out," Lucius answered with a smirk. "But look at it like this, when all of this is done, you will have an excellent story to tell your children and grandchildren," he chuckled. Joseph did not partake in Lucius humorous countenance.

" _If_ I live to tell this to anyone will be the greatest miracle," he growled, soon feeling a few tugs on the rope he held in his hands. Joseph said a quick prayer before handing it over to Lucius. He stared into the murky depths and decided that it was better to dive in there without thinking. So he took a deep breath, cursing the situation he found himself in and dove.

Joseph was blind, feeling the water tug at him in all directions. The only thing reassuring him was the taut rope, leading him through some sort of underwater tunnel. He had no idea how Tristan had found it. He also wondered how Tristan had managed to swim through it, for it was barely wide enough for him. Joseph kept dragging himself forward, using the rope as a guide. But when he never reached the end he started panicking, thinking that the tunnel would never end. His lungs started screaming in desperation and his blind senses only added to the growing fear and claustrophobia as he felt the walls come closer and closer. The young man never knew how long he had been there, but he started feeling his lungs give out on him.

He must have stopped for someone pushed him from the back. When Lucius realized that Joseph was stuck, or unmoving he grew worried. Joseph's vision blurred as the air he had withheld escaped in big bubbles, clinging to the roof of the underwater tunnel. He started inhaling water when a strong, gloved hand suddenly found his collar and swiftly pulled him up.

Tristan held the rope with one hand as he stared at an unmoving Joseph. His friend was still not breathing when Lucius surfaced in the small pool next to the wall. Some stone houses surrounded them, but the area was dark and no guards seemed to be in the close vicinity. Tristan cast away the rope once Lucius was by his side.

"Is he breathing?" Lucius said with alarm, rushing to check for himself.

"No," Tristan murmured, placing an ear to his chest. At least his heart was beating. "There must be some water in his lungs."

"What do we do?" Lucius' felt panic rising as Joseph lay there unmoving, his lips turning a shade bluer by the minute.

"Move aside," Tristan growled. He did not know what to do either. But he knew they had to do something, or they would lose Joseph.

He positioned himself next to his friend. The only logical solution he could find was to press on Joseph's chest as hard as he could, in hopes that it would stir his lungs enough. Tristan pressed, but nothing happened. He tried it again, harder this time. Joseph stirred somewhat, but no water came out.

"Help me turn him on his stomach," he whispered. They rolled Joseph over. Perhaps if he was on his stomach, with his airway cleared, the water would fall out. Tristan started compressing Joseph's back, hoping the water would come out. But still, nothing happened. They decided to roll him back. When they turned Joseph to his side, he started coughing, water spurting out of his lungs as he drew deep, audible breaths—one after another until he was breathing normally again. Tristan helped him sit up, placing a hand behind his head, supporting his neck, as Joseph leaned forward, gasping for air.

"Never let me do that again!" he gasped in between breaths.

"You fool," Lucius hissed, relief lacing his voice. "Why did you stop?!"

"I… I do not know. My body would not respond. I panicked," he winced, his breathing calming down as the color slowly returned to his lips.

"Leave him be, Lucius. He is safe," Tristan said, making sure Joseph was breathing alright. When he looked at the young man a twinge of guilt overtook him.

"Perhaps it is best if I continue alone," he started, standing up and moving away from them. Lucius rose his head, looking at Tristan as if he had turned mad.

"Are you in jest, Tristan? Would you have us abandon you now? After having come so far?" Lucius argued, standing up. "It is an insult I will not bear."

"I agree with Lucius," Joseph rasped, still getting over the shock of having almost drowned.

"You almost died, Joseph." Tristan clenched his jaw, not particularly appreciative of their commitment to follow him at the moment. "And it was all because you followed me," he said, gritting his teeth.

"We promised we would help you find Christine. We gave our word to you, just as you gave yours to her. Would you have us break that word?" Lucius asked, recognizing the guilt and hurt so present in Tristan's eyes.

"Then I release you from any bound or word which has you obligated to me. You are free to go," he growled. He would not risk their lives. They were his  _friends_ , his true friends.

Lucius gave off a sarcastic laugh. "It does not work that way. You and I both know it. We will see this thing through, whether you are willing or not, Tristan. Perhaps you have not realized it, but we keep together, we help each other; even if you have a higher title and more lands. We have fought side by side for years and we will not leave you so readily.

Tristan was about to argue back when Joseph stopped him.

"How many times have you not saved us on the battlefield? During the war, you put your life on the line countless times so that we may live. And just now, you saved my life again. We do not help you because we feel we must—we do it because we want to," he added timidly, his voice still raspy.

"That you would think otherwise is a grave insult to both me and Joseph," Lucius added. It was the first time he expressed openly the friendship he held with Tristan.

"We are brothers in arms, now and forever. I will not leave you to search for Christine yourself. She is my friend as well if you remember. Albeit, we've had our differences, but I still care for her, as a friend and as a brother," Joseph said, rising to stand next to them. Tristan's lips tightened, it appeared the traumatic experience of almost having lost one of them had only reinforced the loyalty they felt toward him.

After a pregnant pause—where it looked as if he were deciding what to do with them—his tense shoulders finally relaxed. "Very well, but when I tell you to go away next time, no matter the situation, you will listen. Is that clear?" he said in a commanding voice. However, the small tug in the corner of his lips told otherwise. They both knew that Tristan would never openly admit that he cared for them. But they knew: words were never necessary.

"You have my word," they said in unison.

Joseph recovered and they started moving like silent shadows along the streets of Rome. When they spotted a group of soldiers on their way to the center, they hid in a particularly dark alley, where no light from the lit windows would reach them.

"Do you know exactly where Thorpe's residence would be?" asked Lucius as they sneaked through the small alleys. They felt like thieves, keeping away from the guards. But they argued it was better that way. Who knew, what if Mejías had sent word of them, proclaiming them to be escaped Angloan traitors? They could not take that chance and be captured.

"No. I only know he has a house here, to reside in for whenever he visits Rome and goes to the Vatican," he muttered.

"I cannot be sure to know of his whereabouts. But a good friend of my family resides here and keeps connections with the Papal States on behalf of Angloa. He once mentioned Thorpe's palace near Piazza Nicosia," Joseph whispered from the back. "If you know where that is we might know where Thorpe is," he continued. His voice was still hoarse from his coughing fit.

"We are not too far from there. It is by the river, going north from our current position," Tristan said, looking in that general direction.

Thus, they wasted no time and started moving with the river, careful to not be spotted by the guards that marched on the streets. It was too dark to discern the general architecture or look of the city. Every once in a while, they would stumble on an ancient building. The old Roman buildings were out in the open, not buried beneath the ground, as was the case in Angloa; where the Roman ruins would often be the foundation for the medieval buildings.

A small walk that could have taken no longer than fifteen minutes, seemed like ages for the trio. Especially for Tristan. Every second he hoped that Christine would be in that building, waiting for him. He hoped that she had not lost faith in him, knowing that he would indeed come after her. Tristan had tried to push away any thoughts regarding what Braun might have done to her. If he had touched as much as a hair on Christine, the disgraced lord would know no mercy.

They arrived at the piazza and Tristan immediately signaled out the building—no doubt a residence standing out, more lavish and luxurious than the rest. Thorpe had spared no expense when he had it built a few years ago.

The building, what looked like an irregular pentagon on closer inspection, was compromised of five floors. Guards stood posted at the front. They had no doubt that there were more patrolling throughout the building.

The trio continued keeping to the shadows, heading for the back of the residence. They hoped to find some sort of entrance. And, as luck would have it, some windows had been opened on the third floor, letting the spring air filter in through the rooms.

Tristan saw it as an opportunity. They waited a while, to figure out the pattern of the guards. Once they realized that only two guards passed by the back every ten or fifteen minutes, they saw their opportunity.

Tristan turned to face his friends. "I will scale the building and sneak in. Hopefully, Christine is in one of these rooms. If I am not out within the hour, you are to leave this place," he ordered.

"You mean to say that we cannot come with you?" Joseph sounded confused as he spoke.

"You are in no shape to scale three stories after almost drowning. And you, Lucius, I do not wish to question your abilities, but have you ever scaled a building such as this one before?" Tristan asked. While Joseph kept quiet, Lucius argued once more.

"I may not know how to scale buildings, but if you encounter trouble in there, it would be better to have two fighters rather than one." He was not about to let the masked man enter the lion's den without backing him up. But Tristan only shook his head.

"One hour," he said, in a harsher tone this time. He glanced over his shoulders, watching the second guard pass before he darted to the façade. Lucius was about to run after him when Joseph stopped him.

"We promised!" the younger man hissed. "Besides, Tristan is right; if all of us go in there and we get captured, no one will be able to get help."

Lucius could only stare as Tristan started scaling the stones with great ability. He gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes. "Maybe, but I could still have gone with him, there is no need for the both of us to stay here," he muttered. "Tristan is not thinking straight, he is too blinded in his quest to find Christine," Lucius lamented.

Tristan soon made it to the third floor, slipping into the room, pushing past the billowing curtains. Before stepping into it, he made sure that no one was present. But the dark space was more silent than a grave.

He wasted little time in taking in the lavish decorations and several frescoes painted directly on some walls. Instead, the masked man started creeping along the rooms, making sure he was never spotted. As the minutes drifted by, he grew more frustrated. Room after room stood silent—empty. He slipped down to the second and first floors, only finding servant's quarters and stables, housing the horses. He then began working his way up to the fourth floor.

Suddenly, in a hallway—stuck close to the square courtyard in the middle of the residence, a door opened. The light of the room spilled out into the hallway and a man stepped out, talking to himself.

Tristan recognized that voice. It was Thorpe.

If he could not find Christine, then Thorpe would tell him where she was.

The shadow started tailing the cardinal, waiting for a moment when he would not be within earshot of the guards or servants.

Thorpe turned left and started walking into a desolate hallway. The old cardinal could not help but feel that he was being followed by something. He turned around two times, afraid he would find some assassin, sent there by his enemies—for he had many in Rome. Alas, he only found emptiness. But the second time he turned around, he thought he spotted a shadow, near a window. Thorpe reasoned it was his own paranoia playing tricks on him. As the cardinal turned around he came face to face with a black mask, from which behind two raging blue eyes stared him down with an eerie gaze. Before the cardinal could react, a gloved hand was placed over his mouth and he was pushed up against the wall.

" _Buona sera_ , eminence," Tristan growled in his ear. He was slightly pleased when Thorpe began to shiver like a frightened rabbit under his hold. The rage in his eyes radiated in big waves, threatening to consume the cardinal.

"I take it you know why I am here," Tristan continued, pressing harder against the smaller man when he tried to wiggle out of his iron grip. He studied him for a while as if assessing the lesser man—judging every little detail he could find. There was a great deal of fear in Thorpe's eyes as he tried to avoid Tristan's. But he did not seem as if he expected him.

" _Where_  is she?" he said in a tone so dark and low that Thorpe felt as if the devil himself were talking into his ear. He was transported back to that day when Tristan had challenged Alistair to a duel. He never got to see who won; although it was quite evident who had.

The harsh hand was suddenly removed from his mouth, allowing him to breathe. Thorpe felt the sweat pearl at his temples as he could not find the courage to speak.

"Tell me now, lest you want to die in this instance!" Tristan exclaimed, taking great care in not speaking too loudly.

"I-I h-have no idea what you s-speak of," Thorpe stuttered, pressing against the wall, wishing it would consume him. He wanted nothing more than to get away from the demon before him.

Tristan's stomach dropped when he realized Thorpe was telling the truth. He had no idea what the masked man was referring to.

"I speak of Lord Oscar Braun—the traitor to the crown that you collaborated with, the man who kidnapped my fiancée!" In a hasty movement, Tristan had drawn a knife, holding its steel tip against Thorpe's neck, hoping the weapon would encourage him to speak up faster.

"Braun? Traitor? I-I had no idea he was the one," Thorpe said in earnest. Tristan remained silent as he cautiously eyed Thorpe. "I mean to say, I had my suspicions—of many at court, I might add. But I rather thought it was Athar, not Braun who was the traitor," Thorpe added. Tristan only snickered at this.

"Your lies have no effect on me. The moment Miss Vega's maid confessed you saw it as a tool to take down an adversary of yours, is that not so? Thomas Athar was one of the most powerful men in Angloa and with him out of the way it would only pave the way for you. Am I wrong? Or maybe you were in on the plot to overthrow the king. Once you realized it was about to happen you fled the country, in case it did not turn out in your favor," Tristan suggested, disgusted with the petty man before him. "It was a smart move, for the plot failed," he added, mocking the cardinal.

"I swear to you, my lord, that I never had a hand in such a plot! I only had suspicions and, as a man with morals and loyalty to my king, I acted on them. When evidence pointed against Athar, I only presented said evidence to the king!" he exclaimed, trying to save his reputation. Tristan did not care if he spoke lies or truth anymore.

"Where are Braun and my fiancée!" he demanded, raising his voice. He no longer cared if the guards heard him. Thorpe cowered more, feeling the tip of the knife embed itself within his neck.

"They are not here, my lord, I promise you! I swear on all that is holy!" Thorpe exclaimed, shivering like a frightened animal. Tristan clenched his jaw, gritting his teeth.

"You swear, do you? Let us put that to the test. Where are your quarters?"

"One floor up, but—" Thorpe was cut short as Tristan put a hand over his mouth and started guiding him to the stairs, leading up to the fourth floor. The cardinal saw the stairs swish by as he was dragged up them. The masked man then took them through the hallway.

"Tell me which door is yours. I warn you, Thorpe, any tricks and I will not think twice before I skin you like the pig you are," the masked man growled in his ear. Thorpe had to concentrate hard to control his bladder, for it was threatening to spill its contents after that sentence. He only nodded vigorously. Thorpe showed Tristan the doors leading to his quarters.

They walked past his bed, to the small stand by the window. There he had some candles lit, a Bible, with a cover in mohair and a silver cross, hanging under an exquisite painting, showcasing a pieta. The rest of the chamber was richly decorated in fine textiles and other beautiful paintings. Tristan even wondered if some were by famous artists, such as the recently deceased da Vinci.

He dragged Thorpe to the Bible. "You are a God-fearing man, I hope," he said, the enigmatic eyes seemingly tearing into the very soul of the man. Thorpe could only nod.

"Then swear on this Bible that you told me the truth, that you do not house Braun or Christine Vega here. Swear that you do not know now or have never known of their whereabouts. It is well known that you were a good friend to Lord Braun. Thus, I have my suspicions," Tristan said, motioning for the cardinal to step forth to the little book that awaited him at the stand.

Cardinal Thorpe stared from Tristan to the Bible. He then looked at the cross, making its sign and stepping up to swear. But as he was about to place his palm on the soft cover, the man took a hesitant step back. He feared the wrath of his God more than he feared Tristan.

"I cannot swear then, because I might know where they are," Thorpe said, defeat laced his voice. But that defeat sounded like music to Tristan's ears. He had managed to pick up the trace on Christine's location. He was now closer to finding her.

"She is not here, that I can assure you. And neither is Braun. I never kept  _that_ close relation with him. He did me some favors, which I returned. I assure you I never thought him a traitor. But if Lord Braun has kidnapped her and is fleeing Angloa, there might only be one place he can head, safe from persecution," Thorpe continued. He relaxed when Tristan made no move to stop him, placing all his attention on what the man was saying.

"When he was younger, Lord Braun attended a court overseas—first as a liaison, to strengthen our ties, then as a full fleshed ambassador, some twenty years ago. He made powerful friends there, friendships and connections that lasted throughout the years. He will have gone there to seek shelter; which they will provide, of course. You see, Braun had assets purchased. He kept them through a loyal servant that took care of his possessions. He must be going there to reclaim them now." Thorpe waited for Tristan to speak. But what he saw in his eyes was a racing mind, trying to make sense of the words. The grip he had on Thorpe lessened slightly. The night seemed darker as, in the back of his mind, Tristan suddenly realized that Christine was not there, but someplace else, far away from his reach.

"Where is this place?" Thorpe relaxed as he noticed a hint of desperation in Tristan's voice; the fool was blinded by that young woman.

"It is a place few people from our part of the world ever get to see," Thorpe snickered, personal resent lacing his voice. He now took his time answering the question, savoring each second that passed, tormenting Tristan further.

"Tell me where it is," Tristan said, each word turning heavier in his mouth as they escaped his lips. The old man would, for some reason, not answer right away. It caused Tristan to lose his patience.

"If you do not tell me where she is, I will remove my mask. The sight of you turning mad will be amusing to watch," he growled. The words escaped like venom from his mouth, filled with rage and malice. Thorpe had only heard rumors about Tristan's face. He had no wish to toy with the sight that lay beneath.

"Braun has most likely taken Miss Vega to Constantinople," Thorpe said. The words were rushed, for Tristan's hand had started to travel to the laces behind his head. But once those words were uttered, his hand stopped, as if some invisible force had frozen it in place.

Thorpe could not help himself as he took pleasure in watching the otherwise composed man crumble slightly.

"I suppose he has taken her as security. Slaves from our corner of the world are highly sought after, especially women for the aristocrat's Harems. Although, if she is lucky, she might end up at the Sultan's," he mused. The knife against his throat was removed as Tristan stepped back.

"Constantinople?" The words echoed in that silent room as Tristan came to terms with where Christine was being taken. A place he had once called home. It had been a place he had loved, at one time. A place he had been happy with Sofia. Tristan thought he would spend his whole life living happily there. But it seemed fate had other plans in store for him.

Suddenly, without realizing it, Tristan let go of the cardinal who darted to the door, screaming at the top of his lungs. But he never ran after him. He knew it was too late, the servants or guards would have heard those shouts.

He calmed himself, staring at the window to his left. Tristan opened them, ready to climb out and exit the same way he had come. As soon as he was over the edge, guards ran into the room, shouting at each other in Italian to look for the masked intruder. Tristan was thankful for his muscles, allowing him to rapidly climb down to the street, where he would no doubt soon meet up with Joseph and Lucius.

One guard noticed the opened window and looked down. His mouth gaped open as he saw a figure in black swiftly climbing down the side of the house. It took him a full minute before he turned around to his friends, to signal the location of Tristan.

He heard them, looming over the edge of the window. Someone aimed a knife at him, trying to make Tristan lose his grip. He clung to the side of the house, still on the second floor. Tristan looked up, gritting his teeth as most of them had disappeared. They had no doubt decided to warn their friends. He moved faster, hoping Lucius and Joseph were still hiding.

Shouts could be heard from the other side of the residence and it was all Tristan needed; he took a deep breath, measured the distance to the ground and jumped back. The masked man landed softly on his feet, with the sure footing of a cat. He looked around, not met by his friends. Just as he was about to disappear, a swarm of guards rounded the corner, weapons drawn. Swords pointed at his chest and some even carried pistols, aiming carefully at his head.

"Surrender or we fire!" one of them shouted in Italian. Tristan gritted his teeth, not sure what to do. He had no chance against the pistols unless Joseph or Lucius had seen him from their hiding place. If they created a diversion, the masked man could fight off the guards long enough to escape.

But it was not the case. As the guards circled him, still carefully aiming their weapons at him, some broke through the circle, holding another prisoner.

It was Lucius, with his hands tied behind his back.


End file.
